The Way Of The West

by Elmer Kelton

  “Thanks, Lester!” Dane yelled and held up his hand. “Appreci-ate the support. I want you to take that TJ wagon to your place. Keep it for a few days. You’ll be paid.”

  The livery owner waved his gun and headed for the tied wagon.

  Torsmill was a lot smaller when Dane first came, he remembered as he walked back—just a knot of unpainted buildings that had erupted around a year-round well. He hadn’t figured on staying. That was four years ago and the town had tripled in size. A Comanche raid on the town in those early days demonstrated to the others how effective he was with a gun—and how cool under the stress of battle.

  He was asked to take on the marshaling duties the next day. The town council paid Dane fifteen dollars a month, plus ammunition and one free meal a day at Carter’s restaurant. Dane was honest with himself that the extra money had been the primary motive for taking the job while he built up his trade.

  In the distance, in all directions, prairie grass sang its endless song. Good for raising cattle. In the hazy distance was a long rolling mass of forested hills that served as a western wall. The buffalo had been killed off years before. Shortly after that, the Comanche were moved to the reservation. In fact, a town baseball team played its games in an area that once was a grazing area for the huge beasts.

  “You won’t have this job come this time next year, Jericho Dane,” he muttered and touched the brim of his hat to a passing couple.

  The way the town was growing, he figured a full-time lawman would be needed in another year. Torsmill was a town built by the developing cattle business. There had been several incidents when inebriated cowboys had needed some calming down—and Dane had done that well, making it look easy even. No shooting. Like now. Just an easy-handed firmness that had impressed everyone, even the cowboys involved.

  People here were of good stock, Dane thought as he walked along, waving to merchants and greeting early townspeople; a mixture of immigrants and born Texans. They minded their own business and expected the same from others. They worked hard, raising cattle and some crops, or running a business in town. Everything was fine—and growing, except the biggest ranch pushed for more and more range. Range grass was for the taking and that meant force, or the threat of it. Mostly from Rudolph Cross, the largest rancher in the region. Smaller ranches worked hard to stay alive, fighting to keep access to water.

  Even a fool could see there would eventually be clashes over the stream and its mother pond in the no-man’s-land five miles from town. Two cowboys had been killed there last year. Area residents had taken to calling it “Kill Pond.”

  “Good morning, Jed. How are you?” he shouted at the editor and owner of the Torsmill Times, a six-month-old newspaper. A sure sign of a growing town. “An interview about this morning? Ah, maybe later. I’ve got to get back to my shop. Thanks.”

  Legally, Dane had no authority outside of town; that was county jurisdiction. Or Ranger concerns. But the county sheriff was controlled by Rudolph Cross. In fact, the sheriff was Cross’s nephew, Turin Stockton. The rancher had controlled the countywide election through bribes, threats, and simple vote fraud. Stockton had a small office in town, underwritten by his uncle. It had no jail. Stockton was rarely there, or even in town, except to pursue his interest in Mary Tressian, the owner of the Tressian General Merchandise Store.

  As far as Dane knew, Stockton had never arrested anyone in the year he had held the job. The previous county sheriff had been mysteriously shot and killed on a trip to Waco. Dane had talked with all the cattlemen anyway, including Rudolph Cross. It hadn’t amounted to much, except to keep trouble out of Torsmill. So far. No thanks to the county sheriff.

  Impatient to return to his blacksmith shop, Dane walked past a mentally retarded woman of at least forty, stopped and spun around to greet her. Known around town as “Trash Tess,” she was constantly going through trash cans. No one knew her last name, or where she had come from. Nor did she. Gossip around town was that she had been left by a wagon train headed for Oregon a month ago. A rider had gone after the group, but he was unable to find anyone in the train who knew her.

  “Good morning, Tess,” Dane said, returning to where she sat.

  At the moment, she was sitting on the boardwalk, eating something that looked like a piece of chicken. Beside her was a huge black purse. He figured she kept what possessions she had in it. Her graying hair was matted and dirty. A tic on the right side of her face appeared regularly—as did an occasional seizure.

  “How are you this morning?”

  Her dress was actually fairly new; Mary Tressian had given her several garments recently.

  Looking up at him, she waved the chicken and blurted, “Wha’sum?”

  “No thank you, Tess. That’s nice to ask, though.” He walked on, telling himself that the town needed to find a place for her to stay.

  On occasion, he had let her spend the night in the shed behind the hotel; it served as a jail, mostly to hold drunks who got out of hand. On cold nights, Edward Lindsay, the hotel owner, let her sleep in the lobby, or a room if one was open.

  At his blacksmith shop, Dane removed his coat and hat and hung them next to one of the lanterns, where his shirt already hung. The yellow glow from two lanterns hanging on the wall offered supporting light to the new day. Sitting on the edge of his fire was a blackened coffeepot. It was a daily ritual, making and drinking coffee. A foot from the fire, resting on the ground, was his coffee mug. He drank from it regularly throughout the day. Every day.

  II

  After retying his apron, he poured fresh coffee, took a sip, then began using his bellows to reenergize his fire. Five times he worked it and took silent pleasure in the rebirth of flames.

  “Good work, Jericho,” he muttered. “How about some more coffee?” He answered his own question with two swallows of the hot brew.

  His forge fire was more than a match for the blossoming sun. He liked the solitary nature of smithing; enjoyed, too, the creation of something useful from something hard and strong. The first of four wheel rims was covered with burning wood to generate equal heat throughout the circular iron. He had made the wheels earlier. Satisfied with the rim’s temperature, he placed the wheel itself on an adjacent millstone and pushed its hub into the center hole. With the rim held by heavy tongs, he forced it over the wheel, and pounded it with a sledge on his anvil. The wood growled and smoked, but finally accepted the wheel.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day. Maybe hotter than yesterday. Hard to tell so far,” he said to himself and sought his mug for a hearty swallow.

  Talking to himself wasn’t the only habit produced from long hours of being alone. He also sang quietly from time to time—actually just “Rock of Ages” or “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” He considered himself a spiritual man, but not a churchy one. Something about being cooped up and preached to had always bothered him. They were the only lyrics of any kind that he could remember, and then only the first verse of each. Well, he also knew the chorus to “Jimmy Crack Corn.” But that was it.

  Already sweating in spite of the cool morning, he carried the newly made wheel to the water trough. He turned it in the cool water, tapping it with his sledge as he turned the wheel to complete the adherence. Five taps. He grunted softly as he turned it.

  Five had become a significant number to him. The gentle superstition had started during the War; he was down to five cartridges when the Union engagement they were fighting surrendered. Ever since then, he had considered the number five as lucky.

  Scooting under the doors, a squirrel appeared and chattered its good morning. Dane turned toward the little animal and smiled. The squirrel had become a regular visitor.

  “Well, good morning, my little friend. Are you hungry?” Dane said gently.

  The young blacksmith reached into his pocket and withdrew a portion of bread he had brought from his house for this purpose. He tore five small pieces from it. He placed the morsels on the ground just a foot from the squirrel. Unafraid, the lit
tle rodent waited patiently, then scurried to the treat and began eating the first.

  He always hated to leave his smithing work, especially when he was behind, like now. But his other job as a part-time marshal was an obligation he took seriously. Dane carried a hardened sense of his own capabilities, or lack of them. He’d fought for the South during the Great War and seen more than his share of killing and dying. That’s why he had ridden so far away from his burned-out Louisiana homeland, finally ending up here. In Torsmill, Texas.

  He was no gunfighter. Being marshal was just something no one else apparently had wanted to do. He was a blacksmith by training and by heritage. His late father had been a blacksmith, a fine one.

  After another swallow of coffee, he looked up to see Mary Tressian push through the wide doors of his shop. His feelings for her were hard to hide. He had fallen for the striking general store owner the first time he saw her. But what did a blacksmith have to offer one of the wealthier women in town? He knew Rudolph Cross’s nephew was infatuated with her; everyone around knew it, he figured. He shook his head; he couldn’t compete with that kind of wealth, that kind of position. Still, his mind-set was hard to evade. He leaned over to return his mug to the ground.

  “Well, Marshal Dane, sounds like you’ve had a busy morning,” Mary Tressian said cheerily as she entered.

  “Good morning, Miss Tressian. How are you this fine day?” The words seemed stilted to him and he wished they would come easily.

  “I’m doing well, thank you. It also sounds like you need to be more careful. Those Cross boys aren’t playing for fun, you know.”

  He smiled. Her voice always made him smile. Trying to think of what to say next, the best he could come up with was, “Are you expecting a busy day?”

  She stepped closer and he wished he hadn’t removed his shirt and coat. He turned toward the peg to retrieve them.

  “That’s all right, Mr. Dane. I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.” Her eyes danced with appreciation at his muscular frame. “Yes, I am hoping for a busy day.”

  She turned to go, then paused and looked back, seeking his eyes. “Maybe some time, you might ask me to have supper with you.” She turned away without waiting for his response and left.

  Dane glimpsed her walking across the street as the shop doors swung back and forth until inertia demanded they be still and he could see no more. He jerked his hand away from the fire.

  “Man oh man! Be careful, Jericho.” He moved to the water trough and shoved his fingers into it, still watching her retreat.

  His mind was racing with wonder. Was there a chance with her? Why would she make such a statement if there wasn’t? His thoughts began to collect possible ways to invite her—and when. He leaned over to retrieve his coffee mug.

  A stumpy, older man in a wrinkled three-piece suit strode into the shop and blurted his intention. “When will my wheels be ready?”

  Dane shook his head to clear it of thoughts of Mary Tressian. “Well, they should be done today, Mr. Turner. Probably by mid-afternoon.”

  “If’n you don’t have to run off an’ take care o’ any more marshalin’,” Benjamin Turner said, a smile edging onto the corner of his mouth.

  “Yeah, guess so.” Dane began covering the tire rim with burning wood.

  “I’ll check back. Takin’ a wagon load out tomorrow.”

  “Sure.”

  The day went fast. A full, two-pot-of-coffee day. The sun was disappearing when he finished shoeing the last of five horses. It was a lucky sign, he decided, having five horses to shod. The wheels had been finished a little after the noon hour and Benjamin Turner had been pleased.

  At last, he stretched his arms and admitted to himself that he was tired. Very tired. He washed up, using the hand basin inside the small storeroom where he kept his tools, a supply of iron and wood, a sack of coffee and a grinder. The tepid water felt good on his face and chest. A glance at his empty coffee mug told him he had finished all of the brew.

  His mind wandered across the street to mary Tressian. Lights were off in her store so she wasn’t there. He wouldn’t have gone over there anyway—or would he? He shook his head and began talking to himself.

  “Jericho, let’s go get some supper. I’ll need to get something for the cowboy. Wonder if the restaurant has anything special tonight?” He looked down at his tired clothes and shrugged. A part of him hoped to see Mary there; another part feared it.

  III

  As expected, the arrested Hollister Walker was quite sober and had done a good job, although reluctantly, on his bullet holes. All were patched and ready for painting. Even in the yellow glow of the gaslights on the walls, it appeared like they were smooth.

  “Looks like you’ve done good work,” Dane said as he entered the now busy saloon and spotted the square-faced cowboy sitting quietly in a chair against the wall.

  Without waiting for a response, Dane called out to the saloonkeeper pouring whiskey to a full bar of customers. “How’s it look to you, Oliver?”

  “He’s doing a good job, I’d say,” Natter said over the joyful noise of the saloon. “Have it finished in the morning, I’m sure. Don’t want him painting with a lot of customers here.” He poured another drink and added, “Got the paint in the back.”

  “Good,” Dane said and went over to Walker, who slowly stood.

  “Whar’d my wagon go?” the cowboy asked.

  “It’s in the livery. You can get it when you’re released,” Dane said. “You’ll have to pay for it staying there.”

  “What? I didn’t want—”

  “That’s where we put horses and wagons that are left in town. Like yours.” Dane cocked his head.

  “I wanna get back to the ranch.” Walker’s face was like that of a child asking for a cookie.

  “Bet you would.” Dane shoved his right hand into his long-coat pocket to demonstrate the revolver there. “For now, you’re going to jail.”

  “Damn.”

  “I’ll bring you some supper—after I’ve had mine.”

  “Suppose I have to pay for that, too.” The cowboy shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the door.

  “No. The town pays for that.”

  Their walk to the shed behind the hotel was a silent one with neither man in the mood to talk. Dane unlocked the shed and swung open the creaky door. “There’s a cot and two blankets.”

  “Damn.” Walker pulled on the brim of his hat and stepped inside. He paused. “What if I have to go during the night?”

  “You won’t.” Dane smiled. “When I bring your supper, we can take a stroll over to the outhouse.” He pointed to the small building twenty feet away.

  “What about a lamp?”

  “No lamp.”

  “Damn.”

  Dane closed the shed door and relocked it. He shook his head as a soft “Damn” came from the inside. He reminded himself to tell the town council of the need to have a better jail one of these days, entered the busy restaurant and found his worst fear was realized.

  Mary Tressian sat at a corner table.

  With her was Sheriff Turin Stockton. Although his back was to the entrance, Dane could tell he was talking. She saw Dane enter and her eyes tried to connect with his. Gaslight from the wall caressed her face and danced across her light brown hair, rolled into a tight bun. Her blue eyes glistened with interest in him.

  Dane looked away as if seeking an open table. He knew his face was reddening. Everything in him wanted to turn around and run, but he forced himself to stay. He didn’t need her pity. That’s what her comment earlier today must have been. Pity.

  After sitting in the only open table near the door, a bald-headed waiter, with little interest in his supper decision, strolled over. Dane asked for coffee and a steak. Medium rare. And whatever was available on the side. He had decided against asking about the daily special. The waiter nodded and walked away, making no visible note of Dane’s request.

  He felt silly. Everyone else in the restaurant was with som
eone else—why hadn’t he just chosen to go home instead? He muttered to himself that he could have read one of the two books he had just purchased from her store: a leather-bound edition of Tennyson’s poems and a copy of Lewis Morgan’s Ancient Society. He liked to read; it helped pass the evenings. Usually, he went to sleep after a few pages.

  He drank deeply from the coffee as soon as it was poured, trying hard not to glance in her direction. But he couldn’t help himself, gazing over the coffee cup held to his mouth. She was looking at him.

  She smiled.

  Instinctively, he smiled back. How silly, he told himself. She was probably smiling at something Stockton said and tried to return his attention to his coffee.

  At the farthest table in the back corner, Xavier Anthony had finished having supper with Edward Lindsay, the hotel owner, Harold Ringley, the town’s banker, and Gerald McCormick, who ran the lumber store. All were members of the town council, except Anthony. The three councilmen strolled through the restaurant, acknowledging diners without stopping; they did the same with Dane, and left. Taking time to retrieve his cane, Anthony walked over to Stockton and whispered in his ear. Handsome of face, although thin, with wavy dark hair, brown eyes and long eyelashes, Anthony was admired by many women—and some townsmen.

  The powerful rancher’s nephew turned in his chair momentarily to see Dane, then swiveled back. Mary’s face was taut and Dane guessed Anthony had told Stockton about his arresting the Cross cowboy this morning. Ending his conversation, Anthony patted Stockton on the shoulder and tried to catch Mary’s attention. She was looking down at her plate and he walked away, pausing at an occasional table to converse.

  Dane’s shoulders rose and fell. He hadn’t expected the arrest to remain a secret. There weren’t any around here. As marshal, he had learned—without interest or attempt—that Mrs. McCormick was having an affair with Xavier Anthony. Dane figured if he knew it, most of the town did—except for Gerald McCormick. He also knew the banker, Harold Ringley, was thinking of selling out and going back east, to teach college. And he knew Randolph Cross was interested in buying the bank. He knew the Masons were talking about building a temple on Main Street. He had also heard the stageline was considering a second run each week to Torsmill, and that a fund-raising to build a school, instead of having it in the old Golligher warehouse, would soon be underway.