Outpost, C. Arnold Brown [top 10 most read books in the world .txt] 📗

No one knows his real name. They only know him as ‘The Marshall’ capital letters and all. The Marshall slowly rides into the dusty outpost named Shiloh. The trail weary Marshall directs his steed to the first hotel he sees. It is a seedy old building with faded, peeling paint of some undeterminable color and the name ‘Shiloh Inn’, barely readable in the fading light, posted above the door. The Marshall thinks that this place would be just as good as any other to rest his wary bones for the night as long as it has a bed with clean sheets and a place to wash his saddle-sore hide.
The Marshall tethers his steed in front of the hotel, climbs down and walks through the entrance expecting to find and interior that matches the exterior but he is pleasantly surprised. When he opens the doors he is greeted by the aroma of freshly-baked bread beaconing him to enter. He walks in a spacious, meticulously-clean lobby. The lighting is bright and cheerful and thought the furniture is a bit sparse and well-used it is also well-kept. The earth tones make the lobby feel warm and cozy.
As he walks across the lobby to the registration desk he notices flaws in the otherwise polished floor, suggesting he presence of more furniture at one time. Apparently the owner has had to sell a few pieces to make ends meet in these hard times.
The smaller, more distant Outposts have been hit the hardest by the year-old Civil War. There just isn’t enough money to go around anymore especially this far from the Union capitol. The Marshall breathes a sigh of regret because he knows that the situation will not get any better any time soon.
As soon as The Marshall reaches the registration desk an attendant appears to assist him.
“What can I do for you Marshall? It’s mighty nice to see one o’ y’all roun’ here these days. We ain’t had much in the way of visitors lately much less a Marshall.”
“I’d like a room on the eastern side of the building, away from the morning sun. I’d also like a hot bath drawn so I can wash off the trail dust and before you ask I’m in these parts on business. I don’t mean to be rude but I’m very tired.”
“No offense taken Marshall, it looks like you been on the trail a long time. Here’s your key, room number’s on it and your bath will be in the bathroom upstairs at the end of the hall in about five minutes or so.”
“Good. That will give me time to take care of my steed.”
The Marshall then offers to pay but the attendant politely refuses. This exchange has long since become custom among the Outposts. The Marshalls are the Outposts’ only real protection from outlaws and they receive very little pay (when they receive it at all) for the job they must do. So to compensate the Marshalls and to thank them the merchants in the Outposts give them free room and board. Even thought this is common knowledge etiquette still demands that a Marshall at least offers to pay his way.
The Marshall takes his steed to the Livery across the street for the night. Once he is satisfied that the attendants are competent he returns to the Inn. He walks past the front desk, nodding to the attendant as he passes, then goes upstairs to the community bathroom where he finds a large, white porcelain tub filled with steaming water. He locks the door then undresses making sure his weapons are within reach. He then slides his heavily-muscled bulk into the water to wash away the layers of trail dust he has accumulated over the past week. After his bath he shaves the week’s worth of beard from his deeply-lined but handsome face and thinks, with a little remorse, that he is no longer a young man.
He reminisces about a time ten long years ago when he was newly-married to a beautiful young woman named Rebecca and the wonderful times they shared—like the one weekend in a cabin by a small, secluded lake in the Colorado Rockies.
Reality suddenly jolts him out of his reverie when he nicks himself slightly, drawing a small drop of blood to match the single tear that has escaped from his eye.
Once he finishes grooming, he pulls a nightshirt out of his saddlebags and dons it. He then walks the short distance to his room and climbs into the surprisingly comfortable bed falling asleep instantly.
In the morning, The Marshall wakes up feeling refreshed. He dresses himself, cleans and loads his shooters then walks downstairs for a bite to eat. After his breakfast he heads for the local Sheriff’s office to log in when he hears several loud rapports made by a large aperture shooter thundering from a saloon a few meters down the street. The Marshall instinctively draws his own shooters and dives behind a nearby support post for cover. He notices that no one has emerged from the Sheriff’s office to investigate and shakes his head in disgust.
“Not again,” he whispers to himself.
He then begins to cautiously advance towards the saloon but stops and darts behind another support when he sees someone come crashing through the saloon’s swinging double doors.
“Durogin, at last!” breathes The Marshall.
He watches as Durogin, the sub-humanoid creature he has been chasing for what seems like an eternity, carries a lifeless human body out of the saloon, tosses it onto the ground, spits on it then walks back in.
The Marshall flashes back to the first time he saw Durogin almost ten years ago. He had just signed p with the Marshall Corps and was in the main compound when a pair of Marshalls brought Durogin’s huge mass in to be booked on countless charges of armed robbery, murder and rape. He remembers feeling disgust at the sight of Durogin’s gray skin, pock-marked with huge, leaking blisters and nausea from the putrid stench pouring in waves from his body. One of his fellow enlistees had told him that on Durogin’s home world, he is considered to be attractive. Laughter from the saloon brings The Marshall back to the present and he focuses on the task at hand.
The Marshall walks into the saloon ready to fight but finds Durogin with his hands full of both liquor and saloon girls. He nonchalantly walks over to him and presses one of his weapons to Durogin’s temple.
“One wrong move Durogin and I will blow your lice-ridden head clean off. I’d think about taking me up on this offer. I’d bet that it’s more of a chance than you gave that poor soul outside.”
“I think you been tankin’ too much Marshall. Yur startin’ to sound like one o’ them lawmen from them ole westerns they been showin’ on the tank lately.”
Durogin belches loudly which sparks a round of titters from his girls. He weighs his chances of escape, judging them to be about nil then raises his hands in surrender.
“Sorry girls but the fun’s over. I give up Marshall. You got me dead to rights.”
“Smart boy, pussbag. You’re getting smarter. It took you only twenty seconds this time to figure out that a bad move would kill you. I’m impressed. Have you been taking classes or something?”
“Ha, ha, Marshall, very funny. Everybody’s a friggin’ comedian nowadays.”
“You know the routine fat boy, so let’s go.”
The Marshall takes Durogin’s shooters and ushers him out of the saloon. The Marshall realizes that the partying in the saloon has not even slowed down, nor had it when Durogin shot that man a few minutes ago. He feels saddened by the callousness of those who frequent the saloons now but knows he can do nothing about it. It is simply a sign of decay that is rapidly consuming the outskirts of the Union because of the War.
Once outside The Marshall puts gravicuffs on Durogin and smiles a little at Durogin’s discomfort when the cuffs activate and double Durogin’s already excessive weight. He leads Durogin to the Livery to retrieve his steed and to rent a sidecar for Durogin if they have one big enough. Steeds are very efficient multi-functional interstellar vehicles but they are not designed for two.
While The Marshall is talking to the attendant, Durogin activates a small device hidden in the seam of his right rear trouser pocket. Too late, The Marshall hears the click and hum of the grav-field dampener. He pivots and draws shooters just in time to see Durogin’s ample rear-end disappear into the alley beside the livery. No one notices the Marshall’s smile as he mounts his steed and sets of in pursuit.
After his getaway, Durogin steals a nearby unattended steed and makes a hasty retreat from the Outpost to hide in the nearby asteroid field. The Marshall follows Durogin into the field then activates a life form detector which quickly locates the alien about one hundred meters ahead and to the right of him behind a small asteroid. He steers his steed in that direction.
Durogin peeks around the edge of the asteroid and grins when he sees The Marshall heading towards him. He is still too far away for Durogin’s weak eyes to target so he backs out of sight and waits. While he waits, Durogin quickly checks the long shooter he found on the stolen steed to be sure it will work properly. When he thinks that The Marshall is within his targeting range, Durogin pulls himself around the edge of the asteroid, fires and hits nothing but vacuum because the saddle of the steed is empty.
“Damn his hide! Where the hell did he go?”
Feeling the hairs prickle on the back of his neck and the first stirring of fear in a very long time Durogin spins, only to find The Marshall standing behind him smiling and pointing a shooter at him from the surface of a small asteroid about ten meters away. Without hesitating Durogin fires his shooter but his shot goes wide and to the right. At the same time, Durogin tries to activate his boot jets to dart behind the asteroid next to him. He is not quick enough and The Marshall blows away his left arm at the elbow. The force of the blast slams Durogin against the asteroid and jars the shooter loose. He watches it fly away in the opposite direction of his lower arm. Durogin tries to use his now free hand to activate his jets but another particle beam obliterates it as well as the lower part of his forearm. Durogin screams. The Marshall can see Durogin scream but whether the scream is one of pain or frustration he neither knows nor cares.
“Okay Marshall, you got me. Y-you can take me in. I-I won’t resist anymore. Oh God, this really hurts.”
The Marshall points to his ears and shakes his head. Durogin understands and uses what is left of his right arm to activate his communicator then he repeats his plea.
The Marshall advances towards Durogin still pointing a shooter at him.
“I still can’t hear a word you’re saying Durogin.