[b]Del Rio, Texas[/b]


Mark Rogers put the spurs to his horse and held tightly to the reigns. The bay-colored horse snorted and its hooves clopped against the dirt road that had once been Highway 21. It ran concurrent to the long bending road they once called an Interstate Highway. The interstate was still a mess of rusted cars and chunks of ripped up asphalt.

Mark gripped the horn of his saddle as the horse galloped over a hill and the town of Del Rio came into view. Its taller buildings were starting to crumble from the years of wear and tear, but the smaller buildings and homes were being kept up by the people of the town. With it being a small town, Del Rio didn't get the Crown's attention like a lot of the other bigger cities. They had only a few thousand here.

But now there was more, Mark thought to himself as he bounced in the saddle. Below him, a long line of trucks were rolling down the dirt road towards the city. A big billowing cloud of dirt and dust followed in their wake, Mark following after the dust.

He clicked his tongue and started the bay down the hill towards the town. Each truck held a half-dozen soldiers with full kit and equipment, along with duffel satchels. Mark saw the rifles sitting in each soldier's lap. He raced by the slow moving trucks until he came to the truck at the front of the line, already in the city and heading towards the center of town. Six soldiers watched him in the back while the driver looked straight ahead. Riding shotgun with him was a middle-aged man with silver crewcut and an eagle emblem on his collar. The truck came to a stop and idled as Mark maneuvered the horse towards the passenger who rolled the window down.

"Sheriff Mark Rodgers, Val Verde County," he said politely enough. 

There were more than a few long looks his way. He expected that from people not from the area. Unless something ha recently changed, Mark was the only black sheriff in Texas. The Kingdom wasn't exactly the old South, and it sure as shit wasn't the old old South of the historyu books, but black people in positions of true authority were still rare in these parts. 

"Sheriff," the man with the crew cut said with a curt nod. "I'm Colonel Alexander Jeffrey commander of the Royal Army's 31st Infantry."

Jeffrey reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper, gingerly passing it to Mark through the widnow. Mark glanced at it while he held on to his horse with just his legs. 

"Signed by the Defense Minister," Mark said as he passed it back to Jeffrey.

"Yes, sir," replied Jeffrey. "Where's the best place we can make camp, Sheriff?"

"There's a space on the other side of town." Mark pointed straight ahead. "Just keep going straight and it'll be on your right. How many deep are you?"

"Two hundred are coming today," Jeffrey replied. "We expect to have another thousand encamped by week's end."

"We'll talk when y'all get settled." Mark tipped his hat. "Colonel."

"Sheriff."

Mark squeezed the horse's side with his legs and led his nag away from the wagon train at half-speed. The people of Del Rio were out on the street watching the line of soldiers riding through town. Plenty of eyes were on him too. He dismounted in front of Sammy's. Sam Calhoun stood in the doorway with a towel slung over his shoulder, the apron around his waist was spattered with eggs and bacon grease.

"What's going on, Mark?" 

"Military is moving in for some goddamn reason," Mark said with a spit in the dirt. "Got official orders from Richmond that they're to camp outside of town for the foreseeable future."

"First you hear about this?" Sam asked with a raised eyebrow. 

"Of course. I gotta send a letter to Austin to see what the hell is going on. Twelve hundred soldiers are coming into town and all I got is three deputies. Four if I include you."

Sam's face broke out in a grin. "If I want to be included. I'm only a reserve, sheriff. I don't know how I'll do if something happens..."

Mark put a hand on Sam's shoulder and laughed. "I'm sure you'll make all the difference if we have to face twelve hundred liquored up soldiers. Is Hobby in the back?"

"Washing dishes."

The two men went inside Sam's small diner. Most of the regulars had their eyes glued on the truck convoy going by outside. Sam went behind the counter while Mark sat down in front of it, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver on reflex. Hobby, the skinny and pimply kid who worked for Sam came out the back with gloves on.

"Sheriff?"

"Go run and find the mayor for me, son. Tell him to come to Sam's so we can talk."

Hobby shucked off his gloves and hurried out the diner. From behind the counter, Sam fixed a cup of coffee and passed it to Mark. The men kept eye contact as Mark took a long sip of the hot coffee.

"Say it," Mark said after he finished with his sip. "Say what you're thinking, Sam."

Sam shrugged his shoulders and wiped the counter with his rag. "I'm just thinking what you and everyone else in town is thinking. Soldiers in town, this close to the border, might mean more trouble than a couple of drunk privates fighting with towns folks. It could mean movements against folks south of here. You ready for that?"

"No," Mark said bluntly before taking another long sip. "But who the hell is?"