Part I: Greetings!
Early Spring, 1633
Under most circumstances, Harley Thomas was an even-tempered man, slow to get riled and slow to cool down. This morning, before dawn, he peered into the steamed mirror and shaved a last trace of beard from his face, nicking himself once again. He growled under his breath, irritated by the harsh lye soap that caused the minor cuts on his face to sting. With a last swipe, he rinsed the straight razor and dried it carefully before storing it in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Need to sharpen that thing before I cut my throat. Rain pattered on bathroom window in the pre-dawn. The day’s early morning grayness, seeping past the curtains, promised more. A great start to a crappy day.
Wiping his face a last time, he stepped out of the bathroom. The movement triggered a deep ache in his left knee. Once, years before, he had jumped out of a C-130 over South Carolina and had landed in a tree. A dislocated knee permanently removed him from jump status, ending, or so he thought, his military career. It didn’t, but it restricted him to less arduous assignments. The knee was proof to Harley, now in his late fifties, that old injuries always came back to haunt you.
Getting late, he thought after glancing at his watch. A Second Chance vest lay on the bed. Harley picked it up and strapped it on over his heavy undershirt. This model extended below the belt line. It was uncomfortable while on horseback, but it had an upside; it protected his kidneys. With the vest firmly in place, he reached, out of habit, for his army shirt but paused.
Not today. Instead of the army shirt, he reached back into the closet for his old, faded, blue Marion County Deputy Sheriff uniform shirt. He and his two friends had been auxiliary deputy sheriffs, a part-time job that kept them active in their semi-retirement.
After the Ring of Fire, everything changed. Harley and his friends were now part-time law enforcement officers, when not on active duty with the army. Because of the lack of Grantville PD shirts, the chief, Dan Frost, allowed them to wear their old deputy sheriff shirts with a USA flag embroidered on the left sleeve, pewter colored corporal chevrons on the collar points, and the retention of the deputy sheriff title. Dan Frost discovered that down-timers viewed police officers as nothing more than the equivalent of down-time watchmen. Sheriff’s deputies, on the other hand, were held in higher esteem. Perhaps it was a legacy of the Old English scīrgerefa, a royal official, responsible for keeping the peace. The title of deputy sheriff helped when dealing with down-timers and minor nobility.
He pinned a Marion County Deputy Sheriff badge above the shirt’s left breast pocket and gave it a quick rub, remembering the times before the Ring of Fire. Tucking his uniform shirt into his jeans and slipping his suspender straps over his shoulders, he moved to the dresser beside the bed.
On the dresser was his service pistol, a worn, blue Government model Colt .45 and three loaded magazines. He holstered the pistol, making sure the pistol rode just to the rear of his right hip. Taking the two magazines, he slipped them into the attached magazine holders on the left side of the belt, opposite of the holster. With two pounds of steel on one hip and two loaded magazines on the other, a pair of handcuffs looped over his belt in the back, he needed both belt and suspenders to support weight.
The ritual was complete. Harley wasn’t superstitious, but having a ritual—a routine was…comforting.
Now dressed for the day, he left the bedroom and walked toward the kitchen in the rear of the house. Vina, his wife, was talking with their down-timer neighbor, Greta Issler, and Harley’s mother, Emma Lou. Vina and Greta worked in Grantville’s day care center, and helped, when needed, at the hospital and Grantville Assisted Living Center.
Emma Lou sat at the kitchen table sipping from her favorite glazed mug, watching and listening; she was learning German slowly. Greta was an excellent teacher, but a lifetime of speaking English made learning a new language difficult for elderly Emma Lou.
Vina was kneading bread dough when Harley entered the kitchen. Greta was teaching her how to make bread and buns in exchange for the use of the Thomases’ electric oven. The heat from the stove and oven warmed the room, and the aroma of baking bread filled the kitchen.
Greta and her husband, Dieter, had been born in Vienna. She to a family of bakers and he to a family that traded in glassware. After their marriage, Dieter had become a glassware factor in Magdeburg…until Tilly approached. They fled, eventually finding their way to Grantville.
“Herr Alte Thomas was better yesterday,” Greta said in German, referring to Harley’s father living in the Assisted Living Center. “His heart seems to be stronger. Our German air helps his breathing.” Harley’s father’s time appeared to be measured now that the supporting drugs had been withdrawn. It had been a difficult decision to make, but inevitable. Doctors Adams and Nichols had sent a plea to the residents and relatives of those living in Assisted Living Manor, asking that a portion of the life supporting drugs be set aside for emergencies. The elder Thomas had volunteered. He, Emma Lou, Harley and Vina had talked long into the night after the plea. Vina had felt that it was almost like asking someone to commit suicide. When the drugs ran out, there would be no refills and the result would be the same. The only difference would be how much time Harley’s father had.
After much discussion and turmoil, Emma Lou and Harley agreed with the senior Thomas. Vina had quit arguing against it, but she would never agree. The decision created a barrier between them, and Harley was aware it would be a long time before it would come down.
“Are you riding today?” Greta asked when Harley entered the kitchen. She referred to Harley’s occasional horseback patrol at the behest of Dan Frost as “riding.” Vina refused to look at Harley wearing his old Deputy Sheriff shirt. He was home on furlough from the army, now that the internecine warfare across Germany had subsided for the winter.
“Dan Frost has no right, Harley. You already have a job and shouldn’t be taking cases for him on your time off!” she said, keeping her head down as she kneaded the dough.
“We’re needed, Vina,” he said, in answer to her complaint. “Max, Archie, Dieter and I are going to a place near Rudolstadt. There’s been some thieving and some villagers have been knifed. They appealed to the count’s man in Rudolstadt, who passed the buck to Dan Frost, who asked us to check it out.”
“Will you be home for supper?” Vina asked sharply. She had flour coating her arms halfway to her elbows. At some point, she’d unknowingly deposited some on her forehead and cheek.
“I think so, if Dan doesn’t come up with something else.”
“Good! We’re having several folks for supper; it’s our turn for the neighborhood potluck. Greta has made turnip soup and I’m adding some sausage.”
“Here’s some willow-bark tea to get you going, Herr Thomas,” Greta said, handing him a mug. Harley had grown used to the tea, bitter as it was. It wasn’t coffee or conventional tea, but it helped to dull the pain in his knee. He had heard rumors that someone was trying to get coffee and tea imported. That would be welcome if it came to pass.
“Dieter left to get the horses saddled. He said he would meet you at the stables,” she added.
Harley nodded his thanks and sipped the hot tea. I think I’d kill for a mug of plain old Lipton tea. He and Vina had grown to prefer hot brewed tea rather than coffee since their return from Europe and his subsequent discharge from the U.S. Army.
“Do you want to take some willow-bark tea with you?” Emma Lou asked.
“No, thank you. My knee’ll be fine.” Harley finished his tea, sipped some water to clean the bitter taste from his mouth, and set the mug next to the kitchen sink. He hoped willow-bark tea would be as half as good as up-time aspirin.
His jacket and scarf hung next to the back door. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, tucked the ends inside the front of his shirt and slipped on the thick nylon jacket with Marion County Sheriff’s Office printed across the back.
Harley, along with Archie Mitchell and Max Huffman, had been auxiliary deputies until the Ring of Fire. Now, they helped train recruits for the army and train those who would become trainers. When home from the army, he and the others helped Dan Frost as needed.
Keeps me out of the house. Vina will get over it. There really is no alternative. He retrieved his weathered blue trooper’s hat with its blue plastic weather cover and placed it on his head instead of his usual army headgear. Everyone seemed to have multiple roles since their arrival in Germany. Today, he was a deputy sheriff. Next month, he would be a drill instructor, again.
Harley retrieved his M1 Garand rifle leaning next to the door, a relic older than he was, and picked up his saddlebags loaded with other outdoor essentials: emergency kit, extra ammo, canteens, dry clothes, rain slicker, and enough trail food for three days.
With the saddlebags over a shoulder, Harley walked through the kitchen door. The rain was only a light mist now. He stuffed the slicker into his saddlebag before crossing the back porch, down the steps, and into the alley that led toward the center of town. Cradling his M1, he kept alert in the grayness as he walked toward the city stables. The residents of Grantville had learned the hard way that when you needed a gun, you needed it quickly. After the Croat raid, most homes in Grantville had at least one firearm, always loaded and near-at-hand.
* * *
Max Huffman and Archie Mitchell, the other two auxiliary deputies, were in their late fifties or early sixties, like Harley. All three agreed to work for Dan Frost when not on duty with the army. They had worked together for years before the Ring of Fire and Dan Frost had decided they could help best by riding mounted patrols on the outskirts of the Ring and in the neighboring communities. Some of the neighboring towns and villages took advantage of Grantville’s offer of mutual assistance. Whenever trouble appeared, they asked for help without hesitation. Harley, Max and Archie were all combat veterans and weren’t intimidated by marauding packs of outlaws.
Dieter Issler had joined the Grantville Police last fall as an interpreter. Dieter spoke passable English, with Polish and Italian thrown in as well. In his early thirties, Dieter most often rode with the three deputies, gaining on-the-job policing skills while performing his translator duties.
Harley spoke twentieth-century German, but he had some trouble understanding some of the local dialects. Dieter helped translate when his up-time German failed him. Max and Archie didn’t speak German, but they were learning, as did everyone, through necessity. That didn’t help them in the here and now.
Dieter called them, the three deputies, Die Drei Alten Soldaten, or the three old soldiers. From Dieter’s perspective, that is what the three deputies were. They didn’t act like any city watchmen he’d ever met.
Max, Dieter, and Archie were already mounted when Harley arrived. Archie rode his own horse. He was a Western buff and owned the other two horses, too. They were more appropriate for use along the edge and outside of the Ring of Fire, where roads were not well maintained or didn’t exist. And gasoline was scarce, a strategic commodity.
Harley slid his Garand into the scabbard on the remaining horse and stepped up into the saddle. Like Harley, the two other deputies wore Marion County Sheriff jackets and blue trooper hats. Each was armed with a rifle and pistol. Max would have liked to have a pump or auto-loading shotgun, but most of those had been given to the army. Dieter carried one of Archie’s spare pistols and a twenty-inch, double-barreled coach shotgun in his saddle scabbard. Good for close work and necessary for Dieter. He couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn at ten paces with a rifle.
“Any more information?” Harley asked, ignoring the sharp stab of pain from his left knee, triggered when he mounted his horse.
“You should mount from the other side, Harley. I saw you wince,” Max said.
Receiving no response from his friend, Max continued, “Here’s the latest I got from Dan. It appears to be a gang. They broke into some houses and a mill. Looking for food and loot, I suppose. Beat up the miller pretty good, but he’ll live. They killed a villager while leaving the mill, so they’ve been given outlaw status. They would have anyway, for stealing food. The count’s man, Helmut Reinart, thinks there are four or five of them.”
“That’s not much more than what Dan told me last night,” Harley said. “Well, let’s go. Vina and I are the hosts for the neighborhood potluck tonight and she wants me home for supper. They can’t wait if I’m late.”
“What are you having?” Archie asked.
“Turnip soup and sausage.”
Glancing at Dieter, Archie leaned toward Harley and whispered, “Do you want to eat with Marjorie and me? We’re having some leftover pig from my last boar hunt and Marjorie still has some potatoes from last summer’s garden.”
“No,” Harley said softly. “Vina sets great store in these dinners. I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t have a good reason for not showing up. She’s adding the last of my homemade steak sauce to the mix. That’ll help, and Greta is baking some fresh bread and buns. They were fixing something when I left the house. Vina was telling Greta about doughnuts and cinnamon rolls, so I hope there’ll be something special.”
The throb in his knee was lessening. He kicked his heels in the horse’s flanks and headed down the street toward Route 250, with the others following behind.
This wasn’t the first time the four had been sent out to help the neighboring towns when the local watchmen had more than they could handle. The mutual assistance agreements had a significant effect on the goodwill being built between Grantville and their neighbors. Sometimes a slight effort paid big dividends, and Grantville needed friendly and cooperative neighbors. The mutual assistance was one-sided, now, but come summer and harvesting time, Grantville’s neighbors would reciprocate.
As they rode down the road in the early morning gloom, Archie muttered, “I feel like I’m in a Western. A bunch of sheriff’s deputies riding out to catch bad guys. Where’s my white hat?”
“Shut up, Archie!” Max said. “You say that every time we ride out. It’s getting old.”
* * *
The deputies and Dieter rode down Route 250 and past the high school. Foot traffic appeared, walking toward Grantville in twos and threes. Some were heading for the school, some toward the mine on the southwest side of town, and others to jobs in Grantville, or at the power plant beyond. By dawn, the three had reached the Ring, leaving the up-time highway and riding up the graded, graveled ramp to the dirt road that continued to the junction of the Saalfeld and Rudolstadt road. The right turnoff went to Saalfeld. They took the left one toward Rudolstadt.
They reached Rudolstadt by midmorning and dismounted at the edge of the small town that backed up to the castle walls to give some rest and relief to the horses. The four continued on foot, leading their mounts. They may need fresh horses depending on what they discovered at the crime scene.
Rudolstadt looked much like the small German towns he and Vina had visited during Harley’s army tour in Europe—narrow streets lined with well-kept houses. The Saalfeld road changed into the street that led toward the center of town where the Town Hall and central market were located. Empty houses were being occupied again with returning residents, now that the threat of Tilly’s marauders was gone.
Rudolstadt’s town hall was the largest building outside the castle walls. It sat on the edge of the market plaza, where a few vendors were setting up their kiosks and product stands. Most of the locals preferred to remain inside. Grey threatening clouds promised rain; rain that the clouds had not delivered yet. From the Town Hall, they proceeded through Rudolstadt, heading for the Saale River waterfront and upstream to the mill. They would be met there.
The mill, powered by a water wheel, was built on the bank of the river. A large wooded building that appeared to be a warehouse was next to the mill, separated by a narrow alley. The mill serviced several small villages around Rudolstadt and the castle.
Count’s man, Reinart, and a Rudolstadt watchman were waiting.
“Hello, Herr Reinart,” Harley said, as he approached the two waiting men. “I am Deputy Sheriff Thomas. This is Deputy Sheriff Mitchell, Deputy Sheriff Huffman and our assistant, Dieter Issler.”
“Hello, Deputy Thomas,” Reinart replied, “and Deputies Mitchell and Huffman. You arrived quickly. Herr Polizeichef Frost said he would send his best deputies.” He ignored Dieter.
Dieter was giving Max and Archie a running translation of Harley’s conversation with Reinart. Harley noticed the snub to Dieter, but let it pass. Grantville needed good relations with Rudolstadt. “What happened, Herr Reinart?”
“Four, maybe five men were discovered stealing flour and grain by the miller early yesterday morning. He lives here with his family. A villager from Debra was approaching from further up the river road when he heard the miller’s wife screaming. He was running to the mill when he was surprised by the bandits as he came around the corner here,” Reinart said, pointing to the entrance of the alley between the warehouse and the mill. “The outlaws ambushed him. He gave us a description of them before he died. The miller’s description is the same. The miller was beaten and cut in a few places, but otherwise unharmed. No serious injuries.”
The Rudolstadt watchman spoke for the first time. “Meine Herren, I am Wachtman Werner Anthross. We have a description of four men of middle age; mid-thirties, the miller estimates. Three wore front and back armor and carried at least one pistol each. The fourth was more poorly dressed, no armor, and he carried an ax. I found tracks heading upriver along the river bank.”
And you didn’t go any further, did you? Town watchmen weren’t eager to venture far from their hometown. They wanted overwhelming numbers if they were going to get into a fight. A single watchman couldn’t do much by himself. Getting killed wasn’t a part of his job description.
Archie and Dieter went off to speak with the miller and his wife while Max examined the scene. The morning thaw had left a thin layer of mud over still frozen earth. Too many people had trod through the alley to leave any evidence. Any attempt to distinguish the outlaws’ tracks from the civilians’ was impossible.
Harley asked the watchman, “How far from here did you track them?”
“Up the river to the place where a stream enters the river. The tracks continued up the stream.”
“You didn’t go any further?”
“Nein. I came back to report to the Herr Reinart, and he sent for you.”
* * *
Max and Harley met Archie and Dieter returning from interviewing the miller. The miller hadn’t provided any new information.
“How do you want to handle this, Harley?” Archie asked. “You can’t walk far with that knee of yours.”
Harley grimaced momentarily. It was embarrassing that his knee was an issue. All three of them were getting a little old for this kind of business. They couldn’t always use Dieter to walk point; he didn’t have the experience. Most of the younger folk were joining the army, or one of the ambassadorial teams. He had his bad leg and suspected Max had a heart condition, but had said nothing. Archie had an ulcer and had lost over forty pounds in the last year. Of course, Archie said that he had the weight to spare, and that was true…had been true.
Dan Frost needed a younger deputy and Dieter was the best candidate he had. Today may be the day for his promotion, Harley surmised. The decision had been left up to them. They were the best judges to determine if, or when, Dieter would be ready.
“Let’s do it this way, flush and sit. Archie, you and Dieter follow the trail. Let’s use this as an opportunity to give Dieter some OJT. Max and I will ride outside the trees that line the streambed, outside the undergrowth, and see if we come across any tracks. If we do, I’ll send Max back with your horses to get you. If we don’t find any tracks, we’ll set an ambush in case you flush them out. So, if you hear us shooting, lie low until you’re sure they aren’t coming back your way. I don’t want you to nab them by yourself.”
“Shoot, Harley,” Archie replied, “I’m not that stupid. I’ve kept my hide intact all these years and I’m not gonna change that now.” With that, Archie retrieved his rifle, canteen, and pack from the horse. Nodding to Dieter, he said, “Dieter, tell this watchman to show me these tracks and where he stopped.” Dieter spoke to the watchman who, with an acknowledging nod, turned and walked off down the alley, with Max and Dieter following.
“Herr Reinart,” Harley said, turning to the count’s man, “we’ll see what we can find.”
“Dankeschön. I’ll have Wachtman Anthross waiting for you. He can find me if I’m needed.”
Harley and Max mounted their horses and, each leading one of the two saddle horses, followed Archie, Dieter, and the watchman down the alley.
“Look Max. You can see how that creek cuts back from the river.” Harley pointed to a distant line of trees that ran from the river to the northwest. The ground, close to the river, had the glimmer of unmelted ice among the leafless trees. “It looks like there is a slough down there. Those outlaws won’t stay there. It’s too wet. Let’s run up along that tree line to the ridge and see if they came out.”
The two deputies rode toward the ridge in the distance, leaving the watchman standing near the edge of the river. Archie and Dieter were no longer in sight. After Max and Harley rode off, the watchman turned and walked back toward the mill. His task was over. Now, he just had to wait.
* * *
Max and Harley rode, listening, watching. “Ya think Dieter is ready?” Max asked, keeping his voice low.
“Yeah, I think so. I’ve been watching him. He’s learning and thinking before he jumps. If he does well today, let’s tell Dan to promote him.”
“I agree. So does Archie. We talked about it this morning.”
They rode further, until Max said, “I’ve still got my Sheriff’s Association card…”
“Really? I’ve lost mine.”
“Well, I was thinking we ought to give him something. It was just an idea…”
“I like it. You can give it to him if he doesn’t screw up. Tell him it’s his deputy membership card,” Harley said with a chuckle. “It’ll do until we can come up with something more official, a certificate, maybe.”
“Will do.”
* * *
Harley glanced upward. The clouds were rising, allowing the morning mist to thin, making visibility easier and ending the threat of rain.
“I wish we had some radios, Max. I don’t like using them as bird dogs, but neither of us could do it.” Max glanced at Harley, but said nothing.
They rode slowly, watching the ground and the surrounding terrain. There were tracks in several places, human and animal, but they were weathered, more than a day old. The further the two rode, the higher the ground rose until they reached the top of the ridge at midday. There, they found a footpath leaving the lower trees and leading over the ridge toward a cluster of buildings in the distance. Those structures appeared to be a small, satellite farming village that supported Rudolstadt castle and the town. On the path was one…two…three…four pairs of tracks heading for the village and not over a day old.
Was this Debra? He checked the map he’d brought from Grantville. The distant buildings were in the right place to be Debra, but he expected to see more people about if it were. Didn’t matter really, so many small villages had been abandoned while armies marched back and forth.
“Max,” Harley said, “take the horses and ride back and find Archie and Dieter. I’m going to follow these tracks a bit, but I’ll wait for you. You get them and follow me as quickly as you can.”
“All right, but don’t go far, you old fart! Vina’d skin me if I let something happen to you.”
“Get going, I’m just going over the ridge to the other side—don’t henpeck me. You’re not equipped.”
Grinning, Max rode back toward the line of trees with the reins of the two saddle horses in hand. Archie swung his leg forward, over the saddle’s pommel, and slid to the ground. It was easier dismounting this way. His leg was not hurting much; maybe the willow-bark tea worked.
The ground was leaf covered, masking the mud underneath. With reins in hand, he followed the tracks. On the other side of the ridge, the tracks continued toward the distant buildings.
Harley took a pair of binoculars from his saddlebags and steadied them across the back of his horse while he examined the buildings a half mile away. Smoke rose from one chimney, the white smoke of a wood fire. A door opened on the side of the building and a man stepped out, walked around to the rear of the house, and disappeared.
Someone’s home.
There was an old, leafless oak not far off the path at the edge of a grove of smaller trees. Harley led his horse into the trees and tied its reins to a nearby sapling, giving the horse enough slack so that it could graze from the sparse ground cover. Finishing that task, he took his ground cloth, rifle, canteen, from his saddle, and a sack from his saddlebags. With a snap, he spread the ground cloth behind the old oak tree and sat down. He was close enough to see if anyone came down the path but far enough off it to be difficult to be seen. He crossed his legs, laid his rifle across his thighs, pulled some jerky from the sack, and chewed off a strip while settling down to watch the farmhouse.
As he watched, Harley’s thoughts drifted back to the ongoing argument about his father. Vina didn’t—wouldn’t—understand that he was as upset as she. However, the decision wasn’t theirs, it was his father’s. Doc Nichols told them, Harley’s mother and Vina, too, that the senior Thomas had little time.
Drugs may extend his life a few months, or maybe not. The cold facts were, there was no more. At least Dad is the one who decided. No one took that away from him. I’m going to miss him, though.
* * *
Harley continued to watch, his rifle across his thighs, with his elbows propped on his knees, as he peered through the binoculars. He’d counted at least three people moving around the buildings, performing what appeared to be innocuous tasks. Like houses in Rudolstadt, the larger structure was two stories high, with the lower story and foundation made of bricks or stone; a house large enough for a couple of families. Its upper story appeared to be wooden with strong wooden trusses framing the exterior, with outside walls coated with mud or plaster that had dried to the consistency of cement. The sidings and roof were slate or wooden shake. He could see a door and several shuttered windows on this side, and suspected there might be other doors at the rear. Smoke continued to rise from the chimney.
The other buildings appeared to be older. One was open on one side and appeared to have been a stable at one time. The other looked more like a barn.
A low stone fence encircled the three buildings. The view toward Rudolstadt was blocked by another tree-covered ridge.
While Harley was mulling over his observations, he heard movement on the path coming from his rear. It was probably Max with Archie and Dieter, but it never hurt to take precautions. He picked up his M1 rifle and moved further behind the oak tree. From here, he could see the path and have good cover for defense if necessary. He had one eight-round clip in the rifle, two more clips in a small pouch strapped to the stock, and a fourth in his jacket pocket. Thirty-two 30.06 rounds should be sufficient against four outlaws with single-shot pistols or matchlocks.
As the sounds grew closer, Harley saw three horses and riders approaching on the path; Max and the others. A quick low whistle alerted them as he stood up.
* * *
“See what you think of this,” Harley said. The four had crawled up the ridge until they could see the buildings without being seen. A stiff breeze had risen from the west, ruffling the weeds and their hair, and adding a hint of windburn to their faces. A faint whiff of wood smoke arrived with the wind clearing the view across the way, and the noontime sun had burned off the morning fog.
From the ridgeline, the open area dropped into a small valley with a half-filled creek at the bottom. The area between the trees along the ridge, down to the creek and up toward the farm, was open land that had been farmed. On the far slope, the ground rose toward the house. Rain and runoff had creased with deep gullies—the evidence of heavy, untended erosion.
“Max, you and Dieter go down along the left, cross the creek and approach through the gullies. Dieter, you take the front of the farmhouse. Max, you watch the back and those stables. Archie and I will sneak down the right to that grove of trees, cross the creek there, and approach the house from the opposite side. I’ll join Dieter at the front and Archie will cover the barn and the right side of the farmhouse. When Dieter and I knock on the front door, they’ll bolt out the back. That’s where you and Max will wait for them. If they don’t take off, Dieter and I will go through the front door and the two of you come in the back. That should sandwich them between us.”
Neither Max nor Archie cared for this approach. The three of them had been trained for SWAT entrances. Dieter hadn’t. “Harley,” Max said, “Archie would be better going in the front with you. He can cover you—”
“Max,” Harley interrupted, “Dieter has the shotgun. That’s what is needed. You and Archie can cover the back with your rifles, Dieter can’t.”
With that statement, Max paused. Nodding his head, he turned to Archie and asked, “Well, is that okay with you?”
“Don’t like it,” Archie muttered, still watching the distant buildings. “Don’t like it a’tall…but he’s got a point.”
“Then that’s settled,” Harley said. “Dieter and I will give them the standard knock and warning. If they don’t come out, Dieter will kick in the door and I’ll go in low and Dieter will follow. Don’t forget where we are. Dieter did all right last week in that tavern brawl in Saalfeld, he’ll do all right today.”
* * *
Harley watched Dieter from his location at the corner of the house. Dieter had crawled up from the gully and was watching the house through an opening in the low rock wall that encircled the house. Remnants of a wooden gate hung from one side of the opening. Dieter’s crawl had added some camouflaging mud to his clothes. Harley wasn’t any cleaner. The warmth of the day had softened the ground and Harley’s jeans and jacket were now damp with a coating of dirt, leaves, and mud. The dampness sucked heat from Harley’s body, making him shiver.
No one was in sight and there had been no movement since they had left the eastern ridge to begin their approach to the farm. Archie was visible from Harley’s position, covering the barn. Catching his eye, Harley gave an interrogative hand-sign. Archie replied with another signal that all was clear.
Harley looked back to Dieter and, pointing to Dieter and then himself, indicating they should approach the farmhouse. This would be close work. Harley laid his M1 on the ground and drew his pistol. He rose and advanced on the farmhouse in a crouch. Dieter met him at the doorway.
The windows on each side of the door were shuttered closed. Dieter crossed to the front of the house next to the doorway, ready to kick in the door when told. Harley crouched, prepared to rush the door from the left. He would cross to the right in the interior, covering the left side of the room. Dieter would rush to the left side of the room to cover the right.
Harley looked at Dieter and pointed to his ears. Dieter nodded, tapping his ear to show he’d inserted his earplugs. Harley had done the same before joining Dieter at the doorway.
“Hello the house! This is Deputy Sheriff Thomas. Come out without weapons and your hands on your head!” he shouted in German. Harley hoped his up-time accent would be understandable to the occupants.
Harley waited for a moment, listening for movement or a reply. Nothing. Either they’re gone or lying in wait. Finally, he nodded to Dieter to act. Dieter stood, moved to the center of the doorway, and kicked. Immediately, a shot boomed from within. Dieter spun and fell face down next to the doorway.
Damn! Dieter knew better that to stand in the middle of the door! Harley felt a surge of anger rise within him. He had been growing more irritable as the day progressed with its wet and cold. For many people, anger flared like a flaming conflagration that led to reckless reaction. For Harley Thomas, anger was cold, quiet, and controlled, a tool to be used, and Harley Thomas was a master craftsman of that tool. Time slowed, and he dived into the room.
As he passed through the door, another shot boomed. The lead ball struck the doorframe, driving wooden splinters into the side of his neck and face. Hitting the floor, he rolled onto his right side. BAM! BAM! He fired twice at a shadowy figure standing at the back of the room holding a wheel-lock pistol. The two .45 caliber slugs punched through the middle of the man’s breast plate inches apart. The outlaw took a step, fell to his knees and then collapsed face down on the floor.
Rising to a crouch, Harley scanned the room when a sharp blow to his back shoved him forward and back down to the floor. Harley rolled onto his side and kicked backward with his left foot, sweeping the feet out from under his attacker, who then fell on top of him.
He felt a pop and a stab of intense pain from his knee when the outlaw landed. The second outlaw attempted to stab Harley in the back with a dirk, but Harley’s body armor blunted the blow. Unfortunately, the fall caused the dirk to slash his upper arm.
Dieter appeared in the front doorway, silhouetted against the noonday light. He had been grazed by the large caliber ball that gouged a groove along his ribs. The impact temporarily knocked the breath from him, but he recovered and entered the house to back up Harley.
Harley struggled with a man on the floor when Dieter rushed over and gave a vicious kick to the head of the outlaw. The force of the kick shot the man’s head to the side, breaking his neck with an audible snap.
The rest of the room was empty. Dieter was helping Harley to his feet when the sound of three shots came from the rear of the farmhouse. One shot had been the boom from a down-timer weapon.
“Get your breath and keep watch,” Harley ordered. “I’ll check the rest of the house.”
The room had two exits, one to the rear and one to the left of another room. Harley limped to the left doorway, paused, and slipped into the room. Dieter raised his shotgun to cover the door to the rear of the farmhouse just as another outlaw burst through the doorway with an ax in his hands. Dieter was ready and fired both barrels of the shotgun. The ax wielder staggered back and fell across the doorway.
The sound of the shotgun alerted Harley, and he re-entered the room at a limping run to find Dieter ejecting the two spent shotgun shells and reloading. At that moment, Max Huffman entered the room from the rear doorway, jumping over the body and stood crouched along the wall next to the doorway. Max saw the three bodies. “Harley! Dieter!” he panted. “You okay?”
“We’re okay,” Harley and Dieter said together.
Assured, Max leaned against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. When Max reached the floor, he was as pale as fresh snow.
“How about you, Max?” Harley said, as he knelt next to him.
“Just…let m…get my breath…” he said between pants. “Archie got another one coming out the back…He practically ran over Archie…Archie nailed him, but he got off a shot and hit Archie in the leg…”
“Dieter, take care of Max, I’ll check Archie,” Harley said, limping through the rear door. There was another room in the back, a kitchen with a large hearth and fire still lit. There was no one else in the kitchen. With a quick glance out an open window, he continued out the back of the farmhouse.
* * *
A previous resident had laid down paths of flagstones connecting the back door of the house to the barn and stable. Another flagstone path led to a covered well where Harley saw the fourth outlaw lying in a growing pool of blood. Archie was leaning against the side of the well, attempting to tie a bandage around his left thigh.
Harley hobbled over to Archie. “How bad is it, Arch?”
“Could’ve been worse, I guess. Damned ball ricocheted off that flagstone walk and grazed me here along my pants. It must’ve hit my fingernail clipper; I pulled it out of my leg.” In his hand was the bloody nail clipper, bent beyond usefulness by the lead bullet. Angrily, Archie threw the nail clipper away.
“You don’t look too good yourself, Harley. You’re limping—did you mess up your knee, again?”
“Outlaw fell on it,” Harley said, not providing more information.
The side of Harley’s face and neck were covered with blood, soaking the collar of his uniform shirt and jacket. The left sleeve of his jacket had been cut above the elbow and the edges were dark with blood.
Archie had filled a bucket of water from the well and had been using it to clean his bleeding leg. Harley wetted his handkerchief and began wiping his face and neck, removing splinters from his neck as he found them.
“You should wear your knee brace, Harley.”
“Can’t. Gave it to Homer. He needed it more.”
“Well, I guess so. He can’t walk without a brace.” Archie wet his handkerchief again from the bucket. “I don’t trust this well water. I’ve a bottle of ’shine in my saddlebags. We’ll wipe down with that when we get to the horses.
Harley finished and was re-filling the bucket when Max and Dieter came out of the farmhouse. Harley wasn’t sure if Max was leaning on Dieter or Dieter was leaning on Max.
Archie whispered, “Max was back of the stables when the shooting started. I think he ran flat out the whole way from there to the house. Over a hundred—two hundred yards, at least. I’ve never seen him move so fast, but I didn’t think it would hit him this hard?”
“I think he has some heart problems,” Harley replied. “He can’t keep this up much longer. Vina said that she heard Doc Nichols tell him they couldn’t refill some prescription. I know he’s been worried about something.”
A half hour later, they had cleaned themselves as best they could with the water from the well. Dieter’s wound wasn’t as severe as it had first looked. In fact, all their wounds were superficial, bloody but still superficial.
“Dieter, I think you are in the best shape. Go get the horses. I have a first aid kit in my saddlebags and Archie has some moonshine we can use for disinfectant. We’ll bandage ourselves up and go home.” Harley looked at his watch. It was only a little after one in the afternoon. “We’ve had a hard day.”
Before retrieving the horses, Max waved Dieter over and handed him a small card. “Ya did good… Kid. Congratulations,” he said between breaths.
* * *
Dieter walked to the horses back at the woods at the ridgeline. From time to time, he looked at the card Max Huffman had given him. Max said he had passed the test. He’d been shot at and had shot back; he remembered his duties, and hadn’t failed. Dieter held the card closer to his face. He’d show Greta when he got home tonight—and he would be home tonight. It could have been that he would not have been going home, a lesson Dieter vowed never to forget. He read the card again. It said, Member. West Virginia Sheriff’s Association. I’m a deputy sheriff—finally. Greta will be proud.
* * *
Dan Frost stood in the doorway of the Grantville police station watching his deputies ride toward him. They were quite a sight. All were mud-covered. Max Huffman rode slumped in the saddle, his face gray with weariness. Harley, Archie and Dieter displayed bandages on various parts of their bodies. Harley wore a bandage on the side of his face and neck with another on his upper right arm. Archie had a bandage that looked like a Kotex pad tied around one thigh. Dieter wore a bandage around his ribs, the bandage showing through a rent in his jacket.
They halted in front of Dan and dismounted slowly, all obviously in pain. “Well, well, look what the cat’s drug in,” Dan said. “Looks like you had a bit of a fight.”
Harley looked at Dan for a moment before saying, “We caught the thieves in a farmhouse. Told them to come out. They didn’t, so we went it after them. We left their bodies where they fell. The villagers can take care of them.”
“Who were they?” Dan asked.
“Some out-of-work mercenaries. Appears they ran out of food and were starving, so they began stealing food to survive. I guess they figured they had a better chance taking us on than they would from the local folks,” Harley answered. “I told the Rudolstadt watchman that someone had to know they were there. It was too close to Debra to be overlooked and the path to Debra and Rudolstadt was too worn for just the four outlaws. They had help.”
“You’re right. Well, you told him. We’ll see what comes of it,” Dan Frost replied. “For now, come in and get warm. There’s coffee in the pot and you all look like you can use some. Besides, I have some news for you.” He turned and stepped into the office and held the door open. “Go on back to my office. I want to talk to you before you all go see Doc Nichols.”
“Will this take long, Dan? Vina’s waiting for me,” Harley asked.
“No not long. I’m coming to the potluck, too.”
The four deputies walked inside. Dan closed the door and followed them down the hallway that led to his office. As Harley, Max, Archie, and Dieter entered the chief’s office, they saw Frank Jackson and Chuck Riddle, Grantville’s and the NUS’ chief judge, seated next to Dan’s desk.
“We’ve been waiting for you boys,” Frank said. “We’ve got a job offer for you.” Judge Riddle nodded in agreement.
Harley had a sudden sinking feeling as he sat on a couch along the wall of the office. Max and Dieter joined him while Archie sat in a side chair next to the couch. They waited for Frank to continue. Max and Archie looked guarded, as was he. Dieter looked puzzled and did not know what was about to happen.
“Did you clear up that problem for Rudolstadt?” Judge Riddle asked, speaking for the first time.
“Yes, they did,” Dan Frost said before Harley replied. “All neat and tidy—no loose ends,” meaning there were no survivors left to prey on people.
Frank noticed a small pool of blood collecting on the floor under Archie’s chair. “Uhhh, Archie, you’re bleeding on the chief’s floor.”
Archie looked back at Frank with an expression of extreme irritation on his face. “F…” He caught himself and said instead, “Up yours, Frank.”
“Now Archie, keep control of yourself,” Frank said with a smile. He turned toward Judge Riddle. “That should keep Rudolstadt happy.”
Dan Frost had been pouring coffee while Frank Jackson and Judge Riddle were talking. He gave a mug to each deputy and said, “Jamaica Blue Mountain it ain’t, but this is the real thing. I make one pot a week and this is the day for that one pot.”
As the four held their mugs, the judge spoke. “I have a problem. My jurisdiction will soon include all of Thuringia and Franconia not long after. Corruption is rampant, the legal system is inconsistent and its application is erratic. We’ve a petition from representatives of Franconia for help. They were referred to Dan Frost and me since the NUS has administrative authority in the region.
“Evidently, there are readers of up-time literature in Franconia and they’ve gotten some Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey Westerns. They want us to establish a force like the Texas Rangers and the U.S. Marshals. Some have seen some John Wayne films too—True Grit and Cahill, U.S. Marshal.
“We have limited resources—a few administrators here and there, and we’ve just started to understand the issues. Shoot! Just look at the mess that happened in Suhl. There is still a lot of potential trouble in that region that will keep our attention focused all across Franconia and Fulda, not to mention Bamberg is about to boil over.
“We need more of these folks on our side. If we can provide some stability, Thuringia and Franconia will become our base, our bastion for survival.”
“There are other changes coming here in Grantville as well,” Dan Frost said, interrupting Judge Riddle. “I’ll be leaving by the end of the year—maybe sooner. There’ll be a new police chief and sheriff. Probably either Fred Jordan or Press Richards. Don’t know which yet.”
“We envision an organization, two organizations, really,” Judge Riddle continued, “that will be a combination of the Texas Rangers and the U.S. Marshals Service, to provide visible law and justice to the State of Thuringia and Franconia. The original Texas Rangers spent most of its time as a quasi-military force fighting the Comanches and border crossers from Mexico. It was later, after the Civil War, that they more law enforcement than militia. But that is what we need; a force to provide law and order, a mounted field force to patrol the territory, and judicial bailiffs—marshals, to provide liaisons with the local governments, administrations and ruling aristocracies. An organization to do all the dirty little jobs that will arise, including criminal investigations.”
“We know you boys are getting a little long in the tooth, and you still have army commitments,” Frank Jackson interjected, “except, of course, for you Dieter. We had planned to have you three continue as instructors and trainers for the military academies after you trained a few more drill instructors for the army. But the more we looked at it, we realized there were younger men around in better shape that could do the job just as well. What we don’t have are folks who can react to situations that the rules haven’t covered. You three, and now you Dieter, are more like those old-time marshals than anyone else around. We’re not looking for a ‘one riot, one Ranger’ hero. Just some folks who can take care of themselves when it gets down and dirty, and can train others to do the same.”
“Just like you’ve done with Dieter, here,” Dan Frost added.
“By the way,” Harley said, “Dieter passed his test today. It’s time to make him a full deputy.”
Frost nodded. “Congratulations, Dieter.”
“Danke,” Dieter replied.
“So here’s the deal,” Judge Riddle said, continuing after Frost’s interruption. “We’re asking for the creation of a Marshal Service and a mounted constabulary—like the early Texas Rangers and Judge Isaac Parker’s marshals. I have my son Martin working up charters. When he and I are satisfied with it, Martin will take them to legislature for review, approval, and funding. We’ve been having some straw man meetings with some of the other down-timer representatives, and we think we can get it approved—later this year or early next year.
“I will be head of the Marshal Service until we can find someone to take on the job full time. We have other folks in mind for the mounted constabulary. We want you to be marshals. When the time comes, you would be discharged from the army to accept a position in the Marshal Service. Your former army status will help with some of the local aristocracy. I want this organization to be one where anyone can call for justice, and, I want it to be a model that other states can use down the line.”
“What if we turned you down?” Archie asked.
“Well,” Dan Frost grinned and replied, “we hope you won’t. But, if necessary, we can always draft you.”
“Yeah!” Frank Jackson laughed. “Greetings! You have been selected by your friends and neighbors…”