Jed and the Cold Bloods – Ch. 8

Chapter VIII
‘The thing about deputies is, they’re like to run away at the first sign of trouble unless you train ’em up real good. But that takes precious time that might’ve been better spent just doing the extra work yourself. Personally the only time I’ve felt need for more than a couple helpers is during some kind of catastrophe.
‘Course, there’s seldom time to train deputies during a catastrophe. So it often pays to have a few good men ready to take up arms in time of need,’
– E.G. Tucker

The sun shone brightly above the training yard. Deputies Coleman and Hawthorne stood at attention to either side of the sheriff, regarding the fifteen deputies lined up before them. This spacious field, the next valley over after the crest of the tall hill, on the eastern slopes of which was Jed’s office. The training field was reserved for the sheriff’s exclusive use. Since the time of Marcus it had been a known policy of the village that none were to come there without the sheriff’s leave. For their own safety, of course. The last thing the sheriff needed was to worry about one of the townsfolk catching a stray bullet when he was trying to focus on target practice.
Jed had spent many a day here in Marcus’ tutelage. Even now the memories of the long toil of training were fresh in his mind: learning the ways of the gun, the blade, and the fist. Sparring with his father. Spending long hours discussing the philosophies of rights and wrongs – and hours more running laps when he displeased Marcus with some smart aleck remark. Though he had often resented his father’s hardball training methods at the time, in retrospect Jed was glad for every wearisome hour of it. He now did not have nearly the time to train the deputies properly – not that he meant to, in any case – but nonetheless Jed intended to apply Marcus’ uncompromising methods of instruction with an intensity that he hoped would have made the old sheriff proud. These boys would be sore and weary when the day was out, Jed was sure, but if there was any better way to prepare them for the monsters they might very well be called to face, he didn’t know it. As Jed once had, they would probably resent the stringent demands of their training. And they too would come to be glad for the harsh discipline that was to be instilled in them, or so Jed hoped.
Still, he ruminated, he had morale to consider too. The sheriff knew J.R. and Huber Hawthorne would stick with him regardless, but the younger deputies, he imagined, were only kept from the fear they no doubt felt by a certain amount of false bravado: they imagined themselves mighty warriors, all that stood between their people and the black maw of perdition. While that might have yet proven – in part, at least – to be true, for the moment Jed could not afford to disabuse them of their unwarranted confidence. Although he hated to manipulate the young men so, he for now needed desperately to prolong the inflated sense of righteousness that he could plainly see upon the faces of the young trainees. This was one of the reasons he had gathered them all together for group training rather than the perhaps more thorough one-on-one sessions that Jed had always known – the other and chief reason being lack of time. The sheriff reckoned that this would be a bonding experience for the new deputies, to breed a sense of brotherhood and zeal among them, and that was very much something he wanted to cultivate, if this was to be anything like a solid fighting force if and when it came to that.
The dynamics of peer pressure within the large group, after all, would make for fertile and easy ground in which Jed could sow the complementary seeds of duty and camaraderie. Such things the sheriff had learned from his long lessons with the apothecary – of psychology, philosophy, and other sundry sciences of the mind. Just as his training with Marcus, he had often resented the apothecary’s lessons. Two days before in the cursed depths of Ricker’s Vale, his father’s intensive training had saved his skin by a hair’s breadth in his battle with the lizard-beasts, whose proper name he still felt reluctant to use.
Now the sheriff had cause to be equally grateful for Tomasic’s more scholastic ministrations, as the long and often boring lessons on history and philosophy had taught him how folks were, and how they thought. Most importantly, in this case, he had learned how militias were run, and the psychology behind leadership. Without those long lessons and the wisdom they had offered, he would likely now have been at a loss in managing the impromptu soldiers gathered before him. Upon Marcus’ instruction, and with the apothecary’s assistance, Jed had made a thorough study of multiple treatises on military history and tactics, chief among them the autobiography of General Vernon Wyoming – entitled, simply, Blood and Glory – who very notably served as commander-in-chief of the great continental army during the first wars of liberation. In his memoires, the long-respected General Wyoming recounted in great detail his experience forming and leading the great army to eventual victory from the many scattered regional militias.
Wyoming, to quote his memoires, had by sweat and toil forged a mess of plowmen, blacksmiths, and scullery maids into a proud and unified fighting force that would later be the hammer to break Mescona’s long-worn chains of oppression. Chief among Wyoming’s grand strategy had been to place anyone of proven valor in leading roles commensurate to their experience. The fierce warriors of the native Mesconan tribes proved invaluable in whipping into shape the farmers – and, in fact, scullery maids – who shared their ranks, for the natives had never once bowed before the tyranny of the powers of the Old World. The tribesmen had long known battle with the oppressive foreign armies, and they had been eager to fight alongside their new allies. Along with whatever proper soldiers could be found – some foreign defectors, some militia veterans – the tribal warriors formed the core of the so-called Braves: the iron head of the decisive spear thrust that was Wyoming’s plan of war.
Jed had long found the general’s memories fascinating, along with Marshall E.G. Tucker’s famous Lawman’s Field Manual, which had long informed the basic tenets by which most sheriffs were trained. Helpfully to Jed, the latter contained a few chapters dedicated solely to the instruction and management of deputies. As the sheriff had formed his plans concerning the amateur lawmen, he had time and again thought back to some passage or tidbit of wisdom presented by one of the old texts. In many ways, the two books were similar, as their respective authors were each men of action and learning both, who had much to say on the philosophy of their profession as well as its practical application. While he had found the texts merely a passing interesting in his childhood studies, Jed reflected on how truly indispensible the knowledge he had gleaned from them was, now that he had occasion to apply the lessons practically. Taking after General Wyoming, he had placed in leadership roles such men of experience as they had – deputies Coleman and Hawthorne alone, until Edmain Larkin recovered his strength. They were hardly Wyoming’s Braves, but they were all Jed had, and he’d resolved to put his faith in them. After all, the two senior deputies had long been his steadfast friends, and they were as eager as anyone to defend their families besides.
Both books, too, had spoken at length on the psychology of men at arms, and how one might bring the best out in each man in his service. Jed had long had an intuitive ability to read faces and glean intentions. He had now to apply that skill on a larger scale. Men in a crowd would act as one for better or for worse, Wyoming had long before written, especially in a militia where the twin yokes of brotherhood and duty are heavy upon the shoulders of each man. The sheriff had to see the bigger picture, and consider the group implications of every action he took or order he gave. As he stood waiting in deep thought, feeling the eyes of all fifteen deputies boring into him as one, Jed reflected on just how true the old general’s words seemed to be.
Though it rankled of dishonesty, for they were not true soldiers, the sheriff intended to reinforce as best he could the deputies’ feeling of soldierly fraternity, the vestiges of which had already begun to show among them. Many of the men were, in fact, already friends, having signed up in pairs or groups. Jed did not doubt more than a few had signed up to avoid derision from their peers, or as Huber had earlier joked, to impress a girl. It was all well and good as far as Jed was concerned. If each of the deputies regarded the others as his brothers in arms, after all, they would be all the more likely to watch each other’s backs properly, and more importantly to stand firm beside one another if and when the time came that true danger stared them down with its cold and hungry eyes.
The sheriff was going to do all he could to prevent them from coming into harm’s way, of course, but he was not fooling himself into thinking that it was not a distinct possibility. Whether his and Huber’s coming venture was successful or not, the town needed to be guarded at all times from possible invasion, and being guarded meant doing something about it if one – or more, Jed thought with a wary shudder – of the vicious beasts did try to attack the town in his absence. He wasn’t about to have the deputies sit idly by waiting for a help that might not be coming – though in truth he was worried most that they would run screaming for the hills when their false bravado was shattered by first contact with their foul enemy. The prospective lawmen needed to be prepared for combat, and Jed wasn’t going to bank on each man mustering up enough grit on his own accord to stand toe to toe with the monsters that besieged them. They would need suitable encouragement and, more importantly, combat training.
Unfortunately, Jed thought resignedly, that meant he was going to have to mislead them, for to tell them the truth would be to say they had no business fighting monsters, and send them all home. He could plainly see the false bravado that the deputies had on display with the notable exception of Parker Bringham, who Jed reckoned was a bit too smart for his own good and who looked very nervous indeed. Puffed up chests and squared shoulders were to be seen all around, with only the merest wrinkle of doubt and anxiety hidden behind the masculine facade. Jed thought himself an honest man, and he believed that in all things, the truth was best. He wanted nothing more than to strip away the false courage that so plagued these men – to tell them that they were in terrible danger and might very well die in vain trying to defend their homes.
He could do no such thing, of course, no matter how his conscience demanded he tell them the truth. His only hope, it seemed, was to play to those feelings of gusto which the deputies were already developing, and to downplay the entirely justifiable doubts that each man surely harbored. General Wyoming had spoken at some length on this very subject – in fact, that was where Jed had gotten the idea. Vernon Wyoming had at first despaired when looking out upon his sad and scattered excuse for an army – over-enthusiastic amateurs by the cartload, who if put to the test were just as likely to blow their own foot off as shoot in the direction of the enemy.
The general had spoken of rolling up one’s sleeves and getting right into it, when it came to shaping a militia. Building an army is bloody work, he said, and you couldn’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. When all was on the line, a general could not be afraid to manipulate his men as needed – physically, emotionally, whatever the cost of victory. To play off of their sense of duty. To remind them that they were likely all that would stand between their families and utter destruction. To remind each of them that if they shirked in their duties or failed to rise to the occasion, it would be to the shame of not only their father’s name but also to each and every brother that stood in arms beside them. The reinforcing of that so-called peer pressure, whereby each man was held firm by the unspoken judgment he felt from the men around him, was key to maintaining a firm and unified front, especially in the face of an enemy that was more well-armed and very possibly more well-trained.
To hear General Wyoming tell of it, that bolstering of natural bravado was half the job of a commander. The other half was to not shirk in giving orders, despite knowing that the man to whom you gave them might very well die as the direct result of that command. Above all, the general had stressed, men at arms looked to their leader for guidance. And even if he felt sick to his stomach, knowing that he had just ordered a friend to their possible death, that meant the leader in question putting on a stern and confident face as he did so. For the general to admit to doubt was tantamount to admitting defeat before the battle had even begun. The commander’s morale – outwardly, anyhow – was everything. Before you went handing out masks of bravery to the frightened soldiers under your command, Wyoming had wrote, you had first to don one yourself.
There was a fine line to tread with bravado, however. Too little encouragement and the men would still feel doubt niggling in the back of their minds, and it would taint everything they did. Such men could not be trusted on the front lines, for if they broke, others would join them in their despair and flee, and all would be lost. Too much encouragement, however, would turn a soldier incautious and foolhardy, and that was in many ways worse. The bravado that let a man at arms stand unyielding against impossible odds, or stay cool tempered and rational even while under cannon fire, was very nearly the same mania that would see a soldier cut down in a vainglorious charge toward the enemy. It was a taxing and difficult balancing act, and in any sufficiently large group, one or more soldiers would inevitably fall victim to either black despair or the so-called Curse of Valor. The latter was especially deadly, Wyoming had wrote, for at least in fleeing, the lives of the men were not so wasted.
A soldier might easily become too invested in the narrative of the righteous warrior that a desperate general had to paint in order to forge an army of liberation out of a few tens of thousands of farmers and tradesmen, most of whom had never hefted a weapon in their lives. Such men were all too easily lost in a blaze of glory. It was not, Wyoming had written, a thing to be proud of, to so manipulate the trusting men under your command. But as the general had famously said: “War is a shameful thing. The only pride to be had in it is that of victory,”
As with most of the general’s words, Jed found that these resonated with his own instinctual feelings on the subject – the ends justified the means. He would feel regret in the doing, but if it would potentially save all the village, the sheriff would gladly have traded away his honor wholesale. As he gazed at the deputies stood at attention before him, Jed reconciled his thoughts on the matter. There was nothing to be done but to take the wisdom of the ages to heart and beginning forging his army, such as it was. After all, this strategy of playing up the foolhardy courage of his men had evidently worked so well for the massed armies of Mescona in the wars of liberation. Besides, he had only sixteen or so men to worry about, where General Wyoming’d had tens of thousands.
Still, the sheriff reminded himself to temper the men’s false courage with a very real caution, lest his plan backfire most grievously. In this, he felt fairly confident, if not entirely at ease with the casual deception involved. He had only to reinforce the bonds of brotherhood that already existed between the deputies – most of them had known each other since childhood, after all. Jed was certain he could get the men to where they were confident enough in themselves and their brethren that they would stand firm against their horrid foe if necessary, and yet wary enough to not take unnecessary risks and go down in a hail of bloody bravado that broke the carefully crafted illusion of competence and left their brothers in arms running for the hills.
After all, that sensation of false gusto was one with which the sheriff had lately grown intimately familiar. In this, too, Wyoming had been almost prophetically correct. Jed’s face was a careful facade of steadfast bravery as he looked out over the deputies, every inch the warrior icon upon which the amateur lawmen could model themselves – or so he hoped. But just as he was sure the men harbored beneath their own masks, Jed felt upon him as always the doubts and anxieties that threatened to usurp his cool judgment, if he was not vigilant. Even now he was carefully suppressing the nervous impulses that had plagued him since the trip to that accursed valley.
His eyes wanted to scan the treeline constantly to pick out the foes that were surely hidden there. His fingers ached for the comforting grip of the pistol. The hair on the nape of his neck stood up, and every gust of wind and distant animal call sent a surge of instinct up his spine. His legs ached to run – either fleeing in terror, or toward the enemy in the frenzy of battle. He was not sure which. This was surely the fine line of which Wyoming had spoken, and upon which the sheriff needed to ride as an inspiration to the men that he hoped desperately would follow in his wake. The conflicting feelings rather made him sick to his stomach, but he had little time to dwell on his own wellbeing. “There is no room for sentimentality” Wyoming had written. “Its kill or be killed. This is war,”
Jed supposed it was war indeed that had come to their sleepy village, for he didn’t know what else to call it. The conflict could only end in death – either for them or for the enemy. And whether the sheriff was worthy or not, he had thrust himself into the position of commander-in-chief for this motley militia. The fate of Dormis rested singly in his hands. Not for the first time, the weight of this responsibility tugged at Jed, and he felt for a moment overwhelmed. As he had more than a few times in the past days, he brushed aside the trappings of despair and set his mind on the task at hand. They couldn’t spend all day waiting around.
After all, they had a war to fight.
“Well, its about a half hour past noon. I guess Hawksly ain’t comin’,” The sheriff announced to no one in particular. All were silent. “Reckon we ought to start without him then,” There was a general murmur of assent. “Clyde, you’ll be in charge of catching Darek up when he gets here. I ain’t got time to waste repeating myself,” “Yessir Sheriff sir!” Responded Deputy Culler. “That goes for everybody, come to think it. Y’all pay attention now, this ain’t a schoolyard lecture. This is serious business,” Jed paused for emphasis, catching the eye of each deputy in turn as he regarded the assembled crowd with a slow stare. “There’s lives at stake. Anybody who don’t genuinely mean to lay down their life in defense of their neighbors, go now. Ain’t nobody’ll think less of you,” There was a stifling silence in the pause that followed. No one moved but for a few nervous shuffles and sideward glances.
The latter he was noticing much of, in fact, each man at some time or another surreptitiously looking at his fellows to see what kind of face they were putting up. Thankfully, in the eyes of most Jed saw only duty and determination, false or otherwise, with only the occasional hesitance of trepidation. The sheriff nodded, pleased both that none had left and that all seemed so hung up on what the others were thinking. That played right into his plan, he noted with a satisfaction that he was loathe to feel. He’d no doubt most of them did not feel nearly as confident as they looked – or if they did, he again had to question whether it was ignorance or courage that he was seeing, for they were then a damn sight more confident than Jed was himself.
“Nobody? Alright then, I’ m glad for it. I ain’t kiddin’ around when I say we need every one of y’all we can get,” He saw a touch of pride spread across the assembled faces. “I’m not gonna lie to you, these are lean times, deputies. We seen peace for so long now, few remember what hardship is like, me included. Sure we had a tough winter or two to fight through, but now for the first time in living memory, our very way of life is under assault,” He let this sink in. “The enemy we’re facin’ don’t care two licks for any one of us, hateful as he is. Y’all won’t get no pity or mercy, if it comes to fightin’, so I don’t expect you to show any yourselves. Got that straight? The enemy’s stolen our livestock… What’s next, our children?” With this he saw a murmur run through the crowd, more than a few of whom he knew had little ones at home. “Old Huber here, I found him in the enemy’s clutches, tied up like a hog waiting to be bled,” Out of the corner of his eye, the sheriff saw Huber shudder, and he wondered for a moment if he’d been hair too emphatic.
After a pause, Jed continued. “But I put the fear of the law in them as I found there easy enough. Queer and alien as they are, they don’t take kindly to blades or bullets more than anybody else. Gun’s I ain’t got to spare, but you’ll each get a blade before the day’s out… You got a question, Fisher?” Fordham Fisher had his hand rather meekly raised, and presently he stammered out the question that seemed to be on the tip of everyone’s tongue. “What, er, what are you sayin’, Sheriff? They?” The young deputies nodded their collective assent to this question, and Jed realized he’d skipped over a few points. “Them as live in that damned valley. I don’t know what everyone’s been calling ’em, cold bloods maybe? That’s rightful enough. But the proper name the apothecary told me is ‘Boreans’, so we ought to use that. Just like with anything, the first step to victory is to conquer your fear, deputies,” Fisher’s mouth hung open, as it tended to when the young man was confused, but he said nothing more. There seemed to be another question hanging in the air that nobody wanted to voice.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Jed began. “Can there really be such things as monsters? All too unfortunately there are, and they’re vicious and hateful and tough. They got claws like knives, teeth like needles, skin like armor, and blood like ice, so cold it burns,” The sheriff let his scars and bandages serve as example of these facts. “Rightfully they ain’t even alive like you or me understand. But they can be killed all the same, I promise y’all that. I killed me five of them varmints between my pistol and my knife, and I wish that had been the end of it. But I’m afraid all we did was stir up the hive. That’s why tomorrow, me and Huber are going back to…” He was hesitant to remind them of the cursed valley where he had met the Boreans, not wanting to bring to mind the deep superstitions associated with that damnable place. Regardless of what he may or may not have seen there, he didn’t need that fact hurting morale. “To the valley. To tell ’em what’s what, and put an end to this if we can,” Jed finished.
As he had half-expected, the crowd seemed to be lingering somewhere between disbelief, evident shock, and deep respect. He didn’t expect them to quickly accept the disquieting facts of the situation. The stark reality of it would sink in soon enough, they needed only time to digest the information. After all, it had only been the day before that the priest had first told the village of the Borean threat in his morning sermon. Again Jed wondered just how much detail Falmer had gone into, and whether what he was telling the deputies now was mostly redundant information. Well, he’d talked enough in any case. If the deputies were anything like himself, he reflected, they’d feel a sight more confident after getting their hands dirty.
“Alright, enough chatter. Training begins now,” Jed announced loudly and evenly over the murmurs of the crowd. “First thing’s first: hand-to-hand combat. That’ll be followed by armed combat, then endurance training, followed finally by the basics of investigation and inquiry. If the sun ain’t down after that… we’ll do firearms practice,” This elicited grins all around, their disquiet forgotten for the moment, except from Deputy Hawthorne, who only coughed nervously. Jed felt a twinge of guilt even as he lied to the boys, but he pressed on, not letting it show. “Any questions? No? Alright then, Senior Deputy Coleman, front and center!” J.R. came forward and Jed made a wide circle around the miner, dragging a foot behind and ushering the deputies back to make room. “My pappy taught me,” Jed began, deliberately playing off of the deep reverence all the village still held for Marcus. “That fightin’s one of them things you gotta learn by doin’. Let’s see now… ”
The sheriff considered the men before him as Deputy Coleman stood placidly in the center of the ring. J.R.’s long, dark beard stuck out proudly from his chin as the senior deputy crossed the thick cords of his arms over his broad chest. All but the largest and most foolhardy deputies were cowed at the thought of wrestling with the musclebound miner. Although in particular, the tallest and most ornery of the young men assembled – red-haired Mert Erikson – appeared wholly unconcerned at the prospect. Jed opened his mouth to declare Coleman’s opponent, meeting Erikson’s confident gaze, when the paranoid bent of his strange mood made him turn to seek the source of the dull noises that had for a few minutes been grazing the edges of his hearing. All followed his gaze and noted with quiet apprehension the way the sheriff’s hand fell immediately to the heavy pistol at his side. Huber Hawthorne kept a firm grip on his wood-hafted felling axe. J.R. Coleman did the same with his trusty iron pick.
Willfully Jed took his fingers from the comforting grip of the revolver, for he had recognized the sound that no one else seemed to yet hear: not cold breath hissing between needle-sharp fangs, but the more mundane huffing breath of a young man who has run far in a right hurry. Jed’s shoulders relaxed substantially, and this subconscious motion of released tension did much to dispel the worry gathering among the doughty deputies. Jed immediately recognized the dark hair and loping gait of the wiry figure that crested the tall hill to their immediate east. As the absentee made his way down the rocky slope toward the training ground, the sheriff waited patiently with the other deputies at his back. Finally the black-haired young man dropped down into the valley proper, and Jed called out with as much authority as he could muster.
“Deputy Hawksly!” The deputy winced, hurrying the final dozen yards despite his evident weariness. He stood, puffing for breath but at attention, before the waiting sheriff. “I’m so sorry, Sheriff. Only I went down to Ed Larkin’s house to see if he was feelin’ better, but he ain’t…” Hawksly managed to sputter out. “You’re late,” Jed told him simply, disappointed though not surprised that Edmain had not yet recovered. “Know what that means, deputy?” Hawksly shook his head briskly, breath not yet caught. The sheriff smiled ruefully. “Means you’re first up for hand-to-hand combat training,” The deputy looked cautiously enthusiastic. “Oh. Well that don’t sound so bad,” Said Darek Hawksly. Jed nodded, holding out a hand. “Gimme that there bow and step into the ring,” The deputy took off the bow and buckskin quiver that were slung across his lanky shoulders and handed both to the sheriff.
Hawskly promptly lost what breath he had just regained as Jed stepped aside to reveal the opponent that awaited him in the ring in question. Senior Deputy Coleman was not quite as tall as the younger man, but seemed near twice as broad at the shoulders as he towered in the center of the makeshift arena. Hawksly skirted around the opposite edge of the ring and looked over to Jed, who was examining the deputy’s hunting bow with evident approval. Owing to Hawksly’s native ancestry, it was traditionally wrought of cedarwood and ram horn. The sheriff gave the bow an experimental tug, finding it surprisingly stiff. Hawskly must have been a good deal stronger than his thin frame would have suggested, Jed reflected, and then set the bow and arrows aside for the moment. “Y’all best pay attention, you might could learn a thing or two,” Jed told the small crowd.
“The rules are simple. First’n out of the ring loses. First’n to say ‘Uncle’ loses. Nothin’ below the belt, no eye-gougin’, hair pullin’, etcetera. We’re trainin’, not trying to kill each other. Any questions? What is it, Hawksly?” The deputy lowered his raised hand nervously. “Er, thing is. My pappy taught me pretty good how to wrassle already,” Jed raised an eyebrow, having expected some comment like this in some vain attempt to get out of Coleman’s ring. “Good fighter, is he? I don’t reckon as I’ve ever met your pappy at church or the like. Always off on huntin’ trips, I believe your mama always says,” Hawksly nodded. “That’s true enough, but he don’t take kindly to churches either way. He keeps to the old ways like. The spirits of sun and wind and rain and such. Anyhow, I’ll just go ahead and step outta this here ring, since Mert seems rarin’ to go… ” Jed shook his head, ushering him back into the ring. “I’m sure your daddy taught you plenty good, but as a formality, would you be so kindly as to show us?” Jed said in a tone that made it clear this was not a request.
“Besides,” the sheriff said, showing his teeth. “I’m sure Senior Deputy Coleman won’t hurt you too bad, will you J.R.?” The black-haired miner said nothing, and his beard bristled as he stood with arms folded. Hawksly reluctantly edged his way back into the ring. “I’ll go easy on him,” said the lanky hunter with good humor, and despite himself Coleman burst out laughing along with the rest of the deputies. “That’s the spirit, boy,” He rumbled in the deep bass of his voice. “Let’s get us going, eh Jed? The sun ain’t gettin’ any higher,” The sheriff nodded and raised a hand, open palmed. “Everybody ready now? Begin!” He waved his hand, and as one the crowd stepped back a pace to give the fighters room.
Coleman cracked his neck, unfolding his thick arms and somehow managed to loom over Hawksly despite being inferior in height. The younger deputy paced cautiously around the outside of the circle, getting a feel for his opponent. With a sudden yell, Coleman lunged forward and swung both arms like a rearing grizzly. Taken by surprise, the lithe hunter only just managed to duck out of the way, sidestepping the bigger man with a quick rabbit punch that seemed utterly ineffectual against the hard slabs of Coleman’s muscle. The senior deputy jumped back away from the edge of the ring, clipping the circling Hawksly with his thick arm and sending him toppling to the ground. Taking the advantage, Coleman leapt atop the fallen deputy as Darek scrambled in vain to rise to his feet.
His thick arm barred across the younger man’s throat, the miner ground his rough knuckles into the top of Hawksly’s head. “Say Uncle, boy!” He said with a throaty laugh. Gasping and twisting in the bigger man’s grasp, the hunter suddenly writhed like a snake and hooked an elbow back into Coleman’s broad gut. The miner’s grip relaxed with a sudden cough and Hawksly slipped nimbly from his hold, catching the breath that he had only just regained when the fight had began. As Coleman rose slowly to his feet, chuckling darkly to himself, Darek stilled his breathing and faced his opponent head on. He bounced lightly on his feet as the old traditions had taught, feinting this way then that to confuse his enemy. The bulky miner came at him with a grappling bear hug that he charged to meet before ducking aside and landing a pair of punches into Coleman’s side.
With an annoyed grunt, J.R. whipped about with a nimbleness that belied his bulk, but Hawksly was already gone. The sparring match continued in this manner for some time, with the bigger man chasing the nimbler about the ring. Neither seemed the more likely to win, trading the advantage back and forth. Both were soon worn out, panting for breath, but agile Hawksly seemed the better off between them. He ducked and weaved toward the gasping miner in a zig-zagging charge meant to confuse the slower man. The younger deputies cheered him on, enjoying the show greatly and inspiring Hawksly with confidence. Consequently, the hunter was taken by complete surprise when Coleman suddenly leapt forward and checked him by the weight of his body. Hawksly’s thinner frame was knocked stumbling backward by Coleman’s brawny chest, and before he realized it, the hunter had stumbled across the edge of the ring and fallen on his backside. Coleman’s hearty basso laugh rumbled through the sunny valley, and as Hawksly rose to his knees he found the miner’s rough hand outstretched toward him. He took it with a grateful pant of breath and was hauled to his feet by Coleman’s prodigious strength.
“A fine bout,” Rumbled the miner, smiling beneath his wiry beard. Hawksly nodded, the breath knocked out of him by the final blow. “Thought I almost had you… ” The hunter panted out between breaths. Jed came forward and clapped Hawksly on the back. “Well fought, deputy. Don’t feel bad about losing, J.R.’s been wrestlin’ and such since before you were born. You ought to be proud you did as well as you did,” The younger deputies added their approval with a few yells and jeers, which made Hawksly smile. He turned to J.R. “Where do you learn to fight like that? That ain’t like nothin’ my pappy ever showed me,” Jed answered for the miner. “You don’t seem the sort to visit the old tavern, but I have to go down there at least once a week to gather up some poor drunk who picked a fight with J.R. and lost his teeth for the trouble,”
Coleman snorted. “A few score years ago there was a big rush down southwest way to mine up a rare metal somebody’d found there, quicksilver or some such. It dried up real quick like, but nobody told my daddy that before he’d come all the way across the country to get rich on it. I was just a youngin then, and I went around from town to town with ol’ John looking for work all the way. Time came where he had some debt collectors after him, and real desperate-like he joined a wrasslin’ competition. Turned out he was real good at it. There was good money in it for a time, ’til he’d won too much and nobody wanted to wrassle him no more. That’s when we moved up here to get away from the noise of the minin’ towns. Without any competition for minin’, he gave up wrasslin’, but when I was old enough I convinced him to show me all his old moves anyhow,” J.R. smiled wistfully, and Jed looked meaningfully at the sun which was slowly but steadily beginning to sink. “Anyhow, who’s up next?” Said Coleman, taking the hint. Tall Murt Erikson stepped eagerly forward, and Coleman waved him into the ring with a rumbling chuckle.
The training continued long through the afternoon. After everyone’d had a bout in the ring (none quite managing to dethrone Coleman, whom some of the deputies started referring to as ‘The Champ’ amongst themselves) Jed handed out a pile of rough-carven wooden training weapons. There were blunt wooden poles meant to imitate spears, and shorter dowel rods like long knives or swords. Also there were several roughly carven longbows, none near as fine as Hawksly’s traditional native recurve. The sheriff organized the deputies into three groups, led respectively by Huber, Coleman, and himself. Under Jed’s general instruction and the group leader’s specific, the three groups trained in various kinds of combat – armed against armed, armed against unarmed, sword against spear, etc. A fourth and smaller group, some of whom had prior experience, were placed under Deputy Hawksly to practice archery against the strawmen Jed had set up on the south end of the valley.
None but Jed had any prior experience or formal instruction in armed combat. The two senior deputies improvised and asked questions of the sheriff as needed, but their wits and experience were sufficient to give the young deputies at least an introduction to the basics of combat. The four groups rotated as necessary to make sure each man received roughly the same degree of instruction, and practice with each permutation of weaponry that Jed had thought to provide. The sheriff did not of course expect the deputies to be fighting with swords or spears, or even bows for that matter. This was merely the best method of which he had conceived to familiarize the amateur lawmen with the taste of battle, and give what little training he could to their no doubt lacking reflexes.
Jed, of course, had the advantage of long years of harsh training under his father. With the wooden swords he sparred many a student that afternoon, and only a few managed even to land a glancing blow. Most didn’t even manage that much, and received only a few knocks and bruises for their trouble. Rubbing their bruised limbs, a few muttered invectives beneath their breath, which Jed pretended not to hear. He remembered being in precisely their place, though he had been younger, and the ire which they felt. He had felt that anger himself, and in the retrospect that he hoped his students would come to share, he knew that it was only the despair of being beaten and seeing the long road of improvement that lies ever before the unlearned amateur.
After the weapon training was complete (or as good as it was going to get, as Jed thought to himself), the deputies were made to run laps around the training field to build up their endurance. Here the laborers fared somewhat better than the less physically active among them. Deputy Bringham in particular was a wheezing mess before the end of the long first lap around the wide field. Jed had expected no less, but was determined to give the boy no special treatment. In fact, he thought it best not to pick him out at all, lest he be the mockery of the other deputies. They were, after all, supposed to be his brothers. He saw at first a few disparaging glances in the panting scholar’s direction. The sheriff’s heart was warmed, however, when he saw Deputies Fisher and Owens stop to help the younger man up and slow themselves to run alongside him, encouraging him. Perhaps they liked their ale a bit too much, Jed thought to himself, but those two had their hearts in the right place.
After they had all caught their breath and had a light snack that Jed had brought along for them, they all sat cross-legged in the cool grass for a less physical lesson. The sheriff went on at some length, recalling aloud many a lesson of law that Marcus had told him so long ago. This, like all the training of that day, was not strictly necessary for the simple watch duties Jed had in mind for them, but he was determined that anybody carrying the title of lawman be rightfully acquainted with his proper duties. He told them of watchfulness and situational awareness, of de-escalating a dire situation, of when force was and was not called for, and the like.
The sheriff waxed verbose about the sacred duty of the lawman, the righteous protector of all things good and pure. Throughout these talks, all listened intently and reverently, and when finally he had finished, Jed took any training-related questions that happened to be on the minds of the assembled audience, answering them as best he knew how. Most of the askers came away satisfied. In particular, bright-eyed Parker Bringham asked a few very pertinent questions about the law, methods of engagement, and the proper way to nonlethally subdue an outlaw.
In answer to the latter, Jed took out a rope and had Huber Hawthorne show the assembly how to tie a proper lasso. The sheriff then took a volunteer from among the deputies and whipped the rope out like a striking snake, tightening the coil about Deputy Owens’ wrist before the younger man knew what was what. In the space of a couple seconds, Owens was on the ground and Jed knelt on his back, binding a tight knot around the deputy’s wrists with quick and practiced precision. The sheriff had each of the deputies give the lasso maneuver a couple tries. Any more than that would have to wait for another day, for even now the sun was beginning to sink. The day had all too quickly been eaten away by the training. Happily Jed noted that despite their weariness and bruises, most of the deputies seemed to have quite enjoyed themselves. Even, to the sheriff’s surprise, Deputy Bringham. In fact, the young scholar seemed very pleased with himself despite his mediocre performance throughout the day.
Glancing with deference to the not-yet-sunken sun, Jed’s hand rested on the hilt of his pistol. He didn’t want the deputies to realize he had been putting them on when he had spoken of firearms practice, but there wasn’t time for more than a few shots in any case. He resolved to only let a couple of the precious rounds be squeezed off, and by someone he knew wouldn’t be a danger with the gun. “Well boys, I’d wanted each of you to get a turn shooting, but it seems like we’re out of time. I know, I know. I was lookin’ forward to teachin’ y’all how to shoot,” He scanned the crowd of crestfallen faces, and none seemed to pick up on his mild treachery. Jed felt another twinge of guilt. “Guess y’all will have to settle for a demonstration,” He added, and this seemed to perk up a few disappointed faces. Jed slid his pistol outs of its holster and flicked the cylinder out, letting the heavy .45 rounds fall into his cupped hand.
“Senior Deputy Coleman,” Jed called, and Coleman was standing at the ready. “Sheriff,” He rumbled. Jed flipped the revolver over in his hand with easy agility and handed it grip-first to the miner. Coleman’s white teeth shone in contrast to his black beard as he grinned, gripping the heavy pistol in his hand. “Boy ain’t she perty,” J.R. appreciated. Jed slid four of the bullets into the pocket of his holster, juggling the remaining pair in his hand. “First rule of shootin’,” The sheriff announced, waving the deputies back out of any potential danger. “Whether you think its loaded or not, only point your gun at somethin’ you aim to kill. Rule two, shoot good or don’t shoot at all. Bullets ain’t cheap. Rule three…” Jed paused, tossing the bullets to Coleman who began to load them immediately. “Y’all might wanna cover your ears. When you’re ready, J.R.,” The sheriff finished.
Coleman snapped the cylinder shut, gripping the heavy gun in both hands as he leveled it at one of the practice dummies. All clapped hands over their ears, except for Jed who stood with arms folded, appraising Coleman’s technique. “See the way J.R.’s doin’ it? Feet apart, both hands, brace yourself, take deep breaths, and… fire,” As if the shining pistol had responded to its master’s command, it barked and jumped in Coleman’s hands. Jed felt the familiar tremor in the air as the great pistol thundered, as if somebody had slapped an open palm on his chest. The dummy’s head exploded in a shower of straw, and it collapsed into a mess of cloth and wood on the ground. J.R. shook his hand in the air as if it’d been bit. “Gotdang, that kicks like a mule,” The miner remarked, though he still had a grin on his face. He looked questioningly at the sheriff.
Jed nodded. “Go on and do another, deputy, but that’s all we got time for today unfortunately,” There was a profound look of disappointment amongst the young deputies, but Jed suspected his next training session – if there ever was another – would see a good deal of enthusiasm for it. That was assuming, of course, that the next train finally brought him more bullets. J.R. fired again, the sound of the shot echoing far across the hills. Another one of the practice dummies splintered into the scrap wood and old hay of which Jed had haphazardly crafted them. The sheriff nodded, pleased that he had evidently chosen well his senior deputies. Coleman tossed the still-smoking pistol back to Jed, who caught it and stowed it back in the holster with a deft flick of his wrist. He was not quite showing off for the deputies, but he did notice a few looks in his direction. Most of the admiration, however, was directed at Coleman. Good, thought Jed. Coleman would be in charge in his and Huber’s absence, after all. It would be well that he garner some respect among the men. “Nice shootin’, deputy,” Jed said sincerely, not adding his unspoken hope that the miner was as good a leader as he was a gunslinger.
The shooting done, the sheriff waved the deputies over for one last thing, cracking open a small crate. “Just one last thing I got for y’all,” He said as he upended the open box onto the ground, revealing a stack of long hunting knives not dissimilar to the one hanging from his own waist. Owing to the short notice on which Jed had procured them, they were of subtly different shape and feature and age, but all were good and solid blades. The deputies eyes lit up at the sight, and Jed couldn’t help but grin at them. “Guns I ain’t got much to spare, but I wouldn’t post y’all to watch unarmed. Come get you each a knife,” He started handing them out, along with a simple leather sheath for each. Soon each of the deputies was proudly tying a knife onto his belt. “The bows are for y’all too,” Jed added. “There’s not enough to go around, but I want each watch and patrol to have at least one bow, for what good it’ll do,” There were nods and grins all around. Now that they were armed, they surely felt like proper militiamen, it seemed to Jed. Even if their armaments were in truth wholly inadequate for the threat at hand. “Course, anybody who has some kinda weapon at home is free to bring it when he’s on duty,” He added as an afterthought.
“Whelp,” Said Jed with finality. “That’s all for today, deputies. Let’s get you all home before the sun goes down proper. Deputy Coleman, would you be so good as to organize tonight’s watch?” Practically before he had finished speaking, the miner answered. “Sure would. Hawskly, Culler. You two are with me tonight. Y’all meet me at the town square after supper, sound good?” The two turned from their quiet chatting to respond as cheerily as they could presented with the undesirable night watch. “Yes sir!” Jed nodded, pleased. “Alright then, I reckon as the rest of y’all are dismissed. Me and Huber are leavin’ at dawn, and we won’t be back for at least a day,” The sheriff paused, looking out over the assembled faces which held such a mix of emotions – weariness, bravado, hopefulness, carefully hidden fear.
One last thing he added: “Good job today, men. I know its your first day, but its no exaggeration when I say y’all made me proud out there. I couldn’t hope for a finer batch of recruits. Already when I look at y’all, I see lawmen. Soldiers. I hope it don’t come to it, but if’n it does, I know y’all will give hell to any of them cold-blooded freaks as dares to encroach on our homes. And I can’t ask any more than that,” Some of what he said was even true, Jed reflected grimly. He had tried to put as much inspiring pride as he could into his voice as he had given the little speech. The deputies seemed to eat it up well enough. Again he felt a twinge of guilt, and Jed had to remind himself that it was all for the greater good. Besides, to some degree just feeling like they were soldiers was enough to make it halfway true, he thought. Despite his self-justifications, and despite General Wyoming’s writings on the subject, Jed wondered if that was truly good enough reason to lie to the men in his service.
He supposed it would have to be. It was too late now to go changing his mind anyhow.