The Way Of The West

by Elmer Kelton

  He watched the stony-faced Comanches. He watched Bowden. The big man was torn and bruised from being knocked to the ground by the blast. Dried blood streaked the heavy bearded face. Bowden’s hands quivered on the stock of a long-barreled musket. His eyes glowed with hatred. The trader muttered something Overstreet didn’t understand and started raising the gun.

  The lieutenant stopped and stood at attention. That gray animal fear was trying to fight out of the shadows again, but Over-street forced himself to listen to his father. Fear no evil . . . fear no evil . . . .

  Bowden swung the gun to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He tried again and again, cursing and slapping at the gun with the heel of his big hand. Somehow the blast must have damaged the piece. He hurled the musket to the ground, his face crimson in fury.

  The Indians watched in stony silence until Bowden stopped cursing. Then one of them pulled a long-bladed knife out of the waist of his leather breeches and handed it to the trader. Over-street couldn’t understand the words the red man muttered to Bowden, but knew their meaning. A gun against an unarmed man was not the way of valor. A man-to-man fight with a sharp blade to strike at the enemy’s heart—that was the brave man’s way.

  But Bowden shrank away from the knife, and Overstreet saw the fear flit across his face. He saw, too, that the Indians had seen it, and they drew back a little from the trader. Indians had an inborn respect for courage, and an everlasting contempt for cowardice.

  Bowden realized his mistake. Hands trembling, he grabbed a lance from one of the Comanches. He cradled it under his arm and spurred savagely at the soldier. Miles Overstreet stood still, watching the feathered lance streaking toward his heart. He dropped to one knee and saw triumph forge into Bowden’s cruel face.

  The horse almost upon him, he threw himself forward, flat onto the ground. Too late Bowden saw the move. The point of the lance drove into the rocks. His reflexes were also too slow. Bowden hadn’t let go of the lance. He was jerked from the horse as if he had hit the low branch of a tree.

  Overstreet jumped to his feet and grabbed at the lance. He found too late that it was broken. He got the long end of the haft. Bowden’s desperate, clawing fingers grabbed up the point of the lance. The big man was on his feet again, holding the point like a knife. His thick lips drew back from his brown-stained teeth, and he looked like a huge animal closing in for the kill. But Overstreet could read fear in the reddened eyes. And now, washed clean like Gulf sand, his own fear was gone.

  Bowden rushed, holding the point out in front of him. Over-street brought up the haft and rammed it into the trader’s soft belly. He heard some of the wind gust out of the man. He jumped in to follow up his lead. Grabbing Bowden’s left hand to fend off the point, he punched hard as he could into the trader’s ribs. But the heavy layer of fat was like a cushion.

  With a bear’s roar, Bowden shoved forward. Overstreet tripped and landed flat on his back. Bowden dived after him, plunging the lance down. Overstreet rolled away. The point grazed his right shoulder and tore a long hole in his gray coat. He gathered his knees under him and kicked at Bowden. He felt his boot heels grind into soft flesh. Bowden cursed.

  The lieutenant rolled over again, sprang to his feet, and leaped at the trader. His fingers closed over the lance point. Bowden was on his back. Overstreet sank his knee on the big man’s right hand, grinding the flesh into the sharp rocks. Crying out in pain, Bowden let go of the lance. Overstreet grabbed it with both hands and brought it down with all his weight into the big man’s chest.

  He stood up, then, and looked away, his stomach drawn up into a knot. The two Indians gazed a long moment at the quivering trader, sobbing feebly against the death that was wrapping around him like a heavy gray blanket. They looked at Overstreet, then wheeled their ponies around, and headed eastward. Over-street stood there, watching them until the entire band disappeared over the mountain. He knew somehow that they would not return. Finally he faced around and walked back toward the ravine, the sinking sun throwing a splash of red color in his eyes.

  Shortly after dawn, Corporal Wheeler came trotting in from a high point where he had been standing watch. “Riders coming, sir, about a mile and a half or two miles to the north. Can’t tell anything about them.”

  His heartbeat quickening, Overstreet followed Wheeler to the point and unfolded the glass. “It could be Indians,” he said. “No, it’s not Indians. They’re riding in a column of twos. Take a look.”

  Wheeler studied the riders a moment. “It’s Yankees, sir. No mistake about it. Old Man Shaffer’s messenger must’ve found him some troops.”

  Overstreet nodded. “Then we’ve got to be moving out, Corporal. Get the men ready.”

  In five minutes the men were saddled and ready to ride. All but Sammy McGuffin.

  “I’m sorry, Sammy,” the lieutenant said, bending over the boy. “We’re going to have to leave you. But those Yankee doctors’ll have you well in no time.”

  Sammy nodded. “It’s all right, sir. I’m not scared any more. I’ve found out now there’s lots of things worse than a prison. They’ll turn me loose, by and by.”

  Overstreet gripped the boy’s hand. “Sure, son, sure.”

  He stood up to find Captain Pace in front of him, extending his hand. Overstreet took it.

  “It’s been an honor riding with you, Lieutenant,” the Yankee captain said. “We wear different uniforms, and perhaps many of our ideas are not the same, but if we had more men like you on both sides, I’m sure this conflict would not last long. The best of luck to you, sir.”

  “Mount up,” Overstreet ordered his men. Then he turned for the last time to Linda Shaffer. He looked for a last time into her shining dark eyes, her lovely face. He held her in his arms, crushing her soft body against his.

  “Linda,” he said in a quiet, husky tone, “there’s no telling what’s ahead for us . . . how long this war will last or where it’ll take us. But there’s one thing certain. Wars don’t last forever. When this war is over, I’ll come back here, looking for you. Will you wait?”

  Her answer was in her eyes. She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. He felt wetness break along her cheek. Eyes burning, he pulled away from her and swung into the saddle.

  Captain Pace had his men lined up. He ordered: “Presen-n-t . . . arms!”

  The men in blue brought up their guns in traditional salute to seven valiant men in gray. Overstreet looked, swallowing down a lump in his throat.

  Ahead of them lay a dozen other battles in places they had never heard of, and would never hear of again. But as he had said, wars don’t last forever. Overstreet returned the Yankee salute. Then he reined his horse around and led his six men south—south toward the Lone Star.

  Morning War

  I

  Dawn was fully in control of Torsmill, Texas, when three gunshots brought part-time marshal Jericho Dane running from his blacksmith shop. A marshal badge glittered on his hastily donned long coat as he hurried down the planked sidewalk to determine the reason for the shots.

  He hadn’t taken time to remove his work apron or put on a shirt under his coat. Instinctively he felt for the short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver in his coat pocket as he hustled toward the saloon area from which the shots had likely come. Brown hair bounced across shoulders made thick and strong from wielding six-pound hammers day after day. Coat sleeves strained at the biceps for the same reason. His medium-sized frame was misleading; his strength, built from his work, hidden by his clothes.

  Dane’s advance was hurried by a fourth shot. He pulled the brim of his misshapen hat to keep it on. So far, no one had come out of any of the three saloons, so he wasn’t certain which one was the site of the disturbance. A buggy passed him and he waved at Harold Ringley headed for his bank. Ringley yelled that he thought the shooting came from the Longhorn Saloon; the banker made no attempt to slow down.

  Crossing the street strutted Xavier Anthony, dressed smartly as usual and as befitting
the town’s tailor. Today, the vain, handsome man wore a black, three-piece broadcloth suit with a freshly pressed white shirt and a dark red ascot. His black hat was short-brimmed and cocked slightly on his head. In his right hand was a silver-topped cane.

  “Sounds like trouble, Marshal Dane,” Anthony said cheerily. “Reminds me of the time we were dug in at Antietam. Those Rebs didn’t expect us to charge.”

  Dane waved his hand. “Thanks, Anthony. Good advice.” He didn’t stop or pause; the man wasn’t one of his favorites. A phony, he sensed. Anthony had returned from the War as a self-publicized hero for the North. On every Fourth of July, the tailor would appear in the full dress uniform of a colonel, augmented with considerable gold braid.

  “Any time,” Anthony said, frowning and continuing to stroll in the opposite direction.

  Farther down the block, a disheveled clerk burst out of the Long-horn Saloon, stopped to determine his next move, and saw Dane coming down the sidewalk. He ran toward the part-time lawman, like a chicken racing away from a determined farmer.

  “Marshal! Marshal! There’s cowboys in there! They’re drunk . . . an’ arguing. An’ shooting at each other.”

  Dane slowed and nodded. “Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll see what we can do about this.”

  “You have a gun, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I won’t need it.” The blacksmith-lawman patted his coat pocket and resumed his advance.

  Intense blue eyes darted ahead to the Longhorn, noting there were two saddled horses at the hitching post outside the saloon. They carried the Broken E brand, Clell Edwards’s ranch, one of the small outfits in the region. Beside them was a buckboard with the two wagon horses showing Cross brands from Rudolph Cross’s massive spread. Like many of the smaller ranchers around, Edwards had been in the region since before the War; Cross had come from Louisiana just two years ago with money. Lots of it. And a burning desire to be the emperor of the region.

  “Well, there’s the problem. I may have to talk with all the ranchers again,” he muttered to himself. It was a habit that seemed to have come from working alone most of the time.

  As he stepped through the saloon door, an obviously drunken cowboy at the bar swung his long-barreled Colt in Dane’s direction. He was taller than Dane, with long sideburns that looked like they had lives of their own, wild strands of hair curled in every direction. His wide-brimmed hat had lost any sense of shape seasons ago. The cowboy’s face was nearly square, and he hadn’t shaved in days.

  Dane didn’t know the man, but it was obvious from the bullet holes in the wall that he hadn’t intended to kill anyone, just scare them. Either that or he was a terrible shot. Still, this kind of violence was not to be tolerated in Torsmill.

  Two other cowhands cowered behind an upturned table at the far-right corner of the room. Oliver Natter, the portly saloonkeeper behind the bar, watched Dane enter; the expression on his round face was a mix of relief and fear.

  “Morning,” Dane said, walking casually toward the bar with the cowboy continuing to point his gun at him. “Heard the shooting. What’s going on? Find a rattlesnake in here?”

  The cowboy noticed the badge, grinned and waved his gun in the direction of the men crouching behind the table. “Yeah, two of’em.”

  “I see.” Dane stepped closer without the cowboy noticing. “Just why are they such, friend?”

  After running his tongue along his lower lip, the cowboy declared, “Well, those bastards used the pond. Yesterday. They ride for the damn Broken E.” He pointed his gun in the general direction of the table and fired again. The slug slammed into the wall behind the table.

  “I see. An’ your boss, Mr. Cross, sent you after them. To Torsmill. Here.”

  The cowboy pursed his lips, glanced at his smoking pistol and tried to push his hat back on his forehead, but it was too tight to move. “Well, no, not exactly. No. I came to town to get some supplies. Rope. Coal oil. Medicine. Soap. Epsom salts. Camphor. Flour. Beans. Stuff like that, ya know.”

  Dane took another step closer to the man. “So you decided to get an eye-opener first.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that.” The cowboy didn’t seem to notice the move.

  “No. No, there isn’t, as long as it’s all right with Mr. Cross,” Dane said. “But you know the rules. No guns in town. You need to give your pistol to Mr. Natter there. Like those two did. You can get it when you leave town.”

  The cowboy’s face was a snarl. “What the hell do you mean? Give my six-gun to that bastard? I don’t give my gun to nobody. Nobody. If you want it, blacksmith, you gotta take it.” He pointed the Colt in Dane’s direction.

  Dane raised his hands slightly. “That’s your decision, pardner. Makes no difference to me.” He made a half-turn to his left as if to leave.

  A groan came from behind the overturned table. The cowboy laughed triumphantly and pointed his gun in their direction.

  Dane whirled around, grabbing the barrel of the cowboy’s gun and slamming down the edge of his opened right hand just below the base of the cowboy’s thumb where he held the gun. Both actions were a simultaneous blur. The cowboy’s hand popped open with the blow and Dane pulled the Colt away with a grunt.

  The saloonkeeper’s fat face bubbled with relief. “Came in here quiet-like. I asked for his gun. He wouldn’t give it to me. Had a couple of drinks, yelled at those two over there and started shooting.” He shook his head.

  Still holding the barrel of the gun, Dane pushed the grip against the cowboy’s chest. “You’re going to jail. For disturbing the peace. Three days or a thirty-dollar fine. Your choice.”

  “What? Thirty dollars! I ain’t got that kinda money.” The cowboy tried to pull away from the push of the gun against him, but his back was against the bar. He made no attempt to grab the weapon, not liking the look in Dane’s eyes. “If I ain’t back today, I won’t have a job. Where’s Stockton?”

  “Should’ve thought of that before you started shooting,” Dane said. “We’ve got a quiet town here. I have no idea where Stockton is. Doesn’t matter. This is a town concern, not a county one.” He looked over at the two cowboys who were now standing. “You boys tell Mr. Edwards what happened here. You tell him I said we don’t want your argument with Cross in town. You hear me?”

  The shortest cowboy nodded, followed by his companion. “Y-yes, suh, we do. Didn’t say a word to him. Honest, Marshal. That pond belongs to everybody. No-man’s-land, you know. Came to town to pick up some hosses.”

  “That’s fine. Glad to have you. Go on about your business.”

  As Dane pulled the gun away, the disarmed cowboy asked, “Say, law dawg, you don’t have a jail.”

  “Oh yeah, we do. The shed. Just behind the hotel,” Dane said, watching the two cowboys gather their pistol belts from Natter.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I’ll bring you food and let you go to the outhouse,” Dane said, holding the gun at his side. “Three days’ll go real fast.”

  The cowboy grimaced. “Mr. Cross is gonna be damn mad about this. Mad as all hell. You wait, he’ll bring in the county sheriff and you’ll look real silly.”

  “You mean his nephew?”

  “Yeah, his nephew. Sheriff Turin Stockton.”

  The two Broken E hands walked quickly to the door, holding their pistol belts at their sides and not looking at Dane.

  From the bar, Natter yelled, “Hey, who’s gonna pay for these bullet holes?”

  Dane turned to the square-faced cowboy, who frowned. “What’s your name?”

  “Walker. Hollister Walker. Friends call me Holl.”

  “Well, Mr. Walker, tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to fix those holes before you stay in the shed. And you have to fix them to Mr. Natter’s satisfaction.” Dane motioned toward the saloonkeeper.

  “Can I go after that?” Walker asked through clenched teeth.

  “No, you’ll do three days. If the job’s not done right, you’ll do three more.”

  Tur
ning toward the saloonkeeper, Walker pulled his hat from his head. “I’ll do a good job. I promise.”

  Dane slid the cowboy’s gun down the shiny surface of the bar toward Natter. “Keep this until I tell you different, Oliver.”

  “Right, Marshal.” Natter caught the sliding weapon and placed it on the back shelf where guns were kept. “Want some coffee? Just made it.”

  “No thanks. Got to get back to work,” Dane said.

  Regaining some of his courage as the shock of being so easily disarmed faded, Walker said, “My boss still isn’t gonna like this. He’ll be sendin’ some of our boys in to see what happened to me.”

  “If they do, I’ll make sure they check their guns.”

  “Yah, sure. You’re only one man,” the cowboy growled. “Ya cain’t sucker-punch all o’ them.”

  Dane smiled, put a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “Be sure to do a good job here, Mr. Walker. I’ll be checking.” He patted the shoulder. “Remember, I could have arrested you for attempted murder, not disturbing the peace. I’ll be back to get you at sundown. If you try to get away, I’ll come after you.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah, damn.”

  As he emerged from the saloon, Front Street was beginning to believe the shooting was over. Merchants and their anxious customers slowly emerged from hiding. Across the street, a small gathering of townspeople had stopped to watch, uncertain of what had transpired. More bold than the others, Fred Mikman, the town’s mayor, was already outside his gun store, looking for signs of further trouble, a new Winchester in his hands.

  The livery operator, Lester Wilson, was also patrolling the street, armed with a Henry.

  Nearing the gun store, Dane looked over at the German-born gunsmith and waved.

  Mikman called out, “How is ze new revolver?”

  Dane nodded approval. “Just fine. Thanks for being ready.”

  This wasn’t the time to tell Mikman that he hadn’t even taken it out of his pocket.