The Way Of The West

by Elmer Kelton

  He looked up, saw Anthony coming to his table and forced a smile.

  “How are you this evening, Xavier?”

  “Fine as a fiddle, Marshal,” Anthony pronounced, shoving his hands in his pocket. He stood for a moment, expecting Dane to make another comment. When none came, Xavier Anthony pushed his hat back on his head and said in a low voice, “Be careful, Marshal. Those Cross men didn’t like what you did today.” He shook his head. “It was the right thing, of course.”

  “Of course,” Dane said. “And I’m sure you shared that thought with Stockton.”

  Anthony’s face twisted into anger, then disappeared. “He is a friend of mine. And the only official lawman in the county. The Cross ranch is important in this region, you know.”

  “I know. So is the law.” Dane reached for his coffee cup.

  Snorting his reaction, Anthony walked away and left the restaurant, adjusting his hat and tapping his cane on the floor. Ambitious as well as vain, he had run for mayor, but Fred Mikman had won that election quite handily

  Dane concentrated on his meal, cutting away the gristle and fat, and enjoying the juicy meat and sliced potatoes. Two different townsmen and their wives stopped on their way out to thank him for the way he had handled the disturbance this morning. In spite of his desire to appear nonchalant, he ate fast. Swallowing the last of his coffee, he ordered a meal for Walker. He stared at the cup and was mildly surprised by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up.

  It was J. R. Reicker, an older man with shoulder-length white hair and immense ears. An ever-present, unlit cigar was comfortable in the corner of his mouth. He was the town’s judge, trying mostly civil matters. A justice of the peace, really. And the registrar of deeds. His small law office was cluttered with mementos of his life, mostly in Missouri. Prior to becoming a lawyer or a judge, he had been a part of several cattle drives.

  Tales of his courageous deeds during the War of Northern Aggression, as part of a Union infantry, were plentiful. As were stories of him fighting Comanches. Unlike Anthony, these observations didn’t come from Reicker. Dane liked the man, assessing him as someone who wouldn’t talk easily about himself, but who had plenty of backbone. Reicker’s evenhandedness, courage and apparent understanding of the law drew him to be appointed judge. His Missouri drawl masked a savvy mind.

  “Marshal, ya dun good today,” Reicker said softly, pushing his eyeglasses back on his prominent nose, “but ya picked up a nasty enemy. Cross’ll have to come to town now—an’ it won’t be for a church meetin’.” He paused, pursed his lips and added, “Ya should’a brought him to me for sentencin’. Not supposed to do both, arrestin’ an’ judgin’.”

  Dane looked up and smiled. “Thank you, J. R. Didn’t see any need to bother you with this one. I’ll remember next time. As far as Cross is concerned, I’m not going to jump to any conclusions. Yet. Rudolph Cross hasn’t broken any laws in this town that I know of.”

  Straightening himself, Reicker nodded and moved the cigar to the other side of his mouth with his tongue. “Be careful, son. Cross is one o’ those fellas that figger laws were made for others to worry about.” He glanced in the direction of Mary’s table. “An’ that nephew o’ his’n has a real need to prove hisself tough. Tough as his uncle, he wants to be.” He shook his head. “Don’t see what that thar purty Tressian gal sees in him. Money an’ pow’r, I guess. Don’t seem the type, tho.”

  Dane thanked him again for his concern and the old judge left the restaurant. As soon as the meal for his prisoner arrived, he asked to talk with the owner. The waiter’s first reaction was to ask if the food was not good. Dane assured him it was and that he wanted to speak with Henry Carter about a city matter.

  After the waiter disappeared into the kitchen, Carter burst from it and headed to Dane’s table. The engaging restaurant owner was tall, balding and possessed a plump waistline from sampling his own food too often.

  “Evening, Jericho. Heard you were busy today,” Carter said.

  Dane was aware Mary was watching the exchange and it pleased him. “Henry, here’s some money to pay for meals for Tess. I know you have been taking care of her, but it’s not fair for you to bear that burden alone.” He handed folded money to the surprised owner. “I would appreciate it if you see she got fed regularly. I’ll give you more when you need it.”

  Looking at the money, Carter said, “Been trying to take care of her best I can.” He handed the money back. “The mayor gave me money for the same thing. Yesterday.”

  Dane pushed the money back into Carter’s hand. “You keep this. Use it when the mayor’s runs out. She is the town’s concern, I think. I’m going to talk with the town council about it. We need to find her a safe place to sleep. Regularly.”

  “Well, thank you, Jericho. That’s mighty nice of you.” Carter nodded to support his comment and shoved the money into his pocket. “She’s already come around this evening. Gave her some steak and potatoes.” He chuckled. “Said it was good, I think.”

  They shook hands and Henry Carter retreated to the kitchen. After eating, Dane waited a few minutes, expecting Sheriff Stockton to come to his table and make some kind of threat for arresting a Cross cowboy. When he didn’t, Dane left coins on the table for his meal and left, carrying the covered plate. He usually took noon dinner as his town paid-for meal—and the food for the prisoner was on the town’s bill.

  He knew Mary was watching him and he was proud of the fact that he hadn’t looked at her as he left. The night was cool and it seemed like an ocean of stars had overtaken the darkness. Trash Tess was nowhere in sight. Usually she wasn’t at this time of the evening. He hoped someone had taken her in, even if it were the livery.

  “I need to talk with Mikman about the town taking care of her,” he told himself.

  IV

  Dane was well into his work by midmorning of the following day. Half a pot of coffee had already been consumed. Earlier he had returned Walker to the saloon, where he was finishing his work under Natter’s direction. Dane planned on getting the cowboy at noon and returning him to the lock-up shed.

  His squirrel scooted under the doors like clockwork and Dane reached into his pocket for a rolled-up piece of bread. He spread five pieces and said, “There you go, Mr. Squirrel. Hope your night was better than mine.”

  The blacksmith-marshal had not slept well in his small house at the edge of town. Most of his struggle with sleep came from thinking about Mary Tressian. He was working the bellows to revitalize his fire, after punching holes in a dozen hinges and welding a cracked wagon wheel, when he heard the sound of horses thundering down the main street.

  Laying down the bellows, he stepped through the swinging doors of his shop to see what the commotion was about. He grimaced at the sight. It was Rudolph Cross, a massive man with a full beard and a mustache cut so low under his nose that it looked like he was wearing a disguise. Beside him was his nephew, Turin Stockton, almost as big. Dane thought the younger man had a permanent leer. He also wore a star on his coat. Like it was some kind of benighted honor, Dane thought. Behind them were eight riders wearing belt guns with rifles in their saddle sheaths.

  Spinning around, Dane went quickly inside to remove his apron, get his shirt and button it on, then pulled free the revolver from his long coat and pushed it into his belt in back and returned to the outside of his shop. It was better to wait for them outside than have them swarming into his shop.

  Rudolph Cross reined his big bay hard to stop it in front of the shop and the others swung behind him, spreading out in a line. Sheriff Stockton grinned and tugged on the gun belt at his waist. His blond hair had produced a scraggily beard and his blue eyes looked a little like he had been struck a blow between them at some young age. He was nearly as tall as his uncle, but nowhere near the old man’s apparent strength. Rudolph Cross looked and acted like a man who expected his every word to be taken as a need to act immediately.

  “Blacksmith, what’s this I hear about you sucker-punchin’ one of
my hands and arrestin’ him for defendin’ himself against two Broken E men?” Cross snarled. His voice was loud and carried well into the main part of town.

  Dane could see a few townspeople had paused across the street to watch this sudden confrontation. One was Xavier Anthony, dressed in striped trousers and a dark cutaway coat. Dane tried to keep his eyes focused on the rancher and not be distracted by the nephew—or the bystanders.

  “If you mean I disarmed a man who was firing at two unarmed cowhands yesterday and wouldn’t give up his gun when I asked for it, you’re right,” Dane said, hoping his voice didn’t carry any nervous vibration. “I could have arrested him for attempted murder. Instead, he was given the option of three days in jail or paying a thirty-dollar fine. He chose jail.” He put his hands on his hips, mostly to be closer to the gun resting in his belt behind him. “He was also ordered to fix the holes he made in the saloon.”

  “Where the hell’s my wagon?” Cross didn’t like the response; obviously it wasn’t the story he had been told about the incident. Dane guessed Stockton had been the one bearing the embellished news.

  “Your wagon is in the livery, where we put horses and wagons left in the street uncared for. Your man will owe the livery for that service,” Dane said. “Your nephew there should know that. He’s the county sheriff, you know.”

  Behind Cross, one of his men snickered.

  Shoving back his shoulders, Cross bellowed, “The hell he will. I’m taking my man and my wagon—now.”

  “No, you aren’t. I’ll decide when he’s done his time.”

  “Who’s gonna stop me?” Cross glared at Dane. “You an’ your pee-ass badge? I got the sheriff of the county right here.”

  “Yes, me an’ my pee-ass badge. Made it myself.” Dane slid his right hand a few inches closer to his revolver. “This isn’t the county’s concern. It’s the town’s.”

  This time all the Cross riders laughed. Stockton looked first at his uncle, then joined in. His laugh was thin, almost feminine.

  “I’ve a good mind to get down an’teach you some lessons, smithy.” Cross leaned forward in the saddle.

  “Looks to me like you need a lot of backing up, Cross.” Dane pointed at the line of riders. “I doubt you do any of your own fighting.”

  “Let me have him, Unc,” Stockton snarled, and started to dismount.

  Cross grinned viciously. “All right. Get it done.” Waving his hands, he grandly announced, “None of my boys’ll bother you, smithy. When it’s over, though, we’ll piss on your beat-up body.”

  Dane’s only response was to widen his stance as Stockton took off his belt gun and coat and handed them to the closest cowboy, who gave him a pat on the shoulder, supported by a growled, “Take’im apart, Stockton. It’ll be easy.”

  Nodding and grinning viciously, Stockton sauntered toward Dane with the last comment ringing in his ears. The young blacksmith had heard stories of Turin Stockton beating a cowhand to death, a man he and a bunch of Cross riders had found alone. Stockton’s eyes glowed with an evil eagerness as he advanced, opening and closing his fists at his side.

  For an instant, Dane wondered if the eagerness to fight him came from jealousy over Mary Tressian. He dismissed the idea as Stockton snarled, “You’re gonna wish you kept to shoeing horses, clown.”

  Dane felt the statement was more for Cross’s benefit than to scare him. It didn’t matter. Closing fast, Stockton swung a venomous right-hand haymaker at Dane’s head. The blacksmith pushed it aside with a well-placed left arm and followed with a right cross to Stockton’s exposed chin. The deflected blow was hard enough that it stunned his arm for a moment.

  Dane’s ability to fistfight came mostly from his father’s training; Jethro Dane had won extra money for his family as a bareknuckle prizefighter in Louisiana, before the War.

  Stockton jerked backward and Dane landed a quick jab to his stomach. An eyeblink behind came another uppercut to Stockton’s chin. He moved away from the shop doors so he wouldn’t be knocked off-balance by being slammed against them.

  Staggering, Stockton swung an awkward punch that caught Dane in the side of the head. The sheer weight of his Stockton’s dazed him and Dane knew he couldn’t let Stockton have many attempts or he would go down. There was no doubt in his mind that the cruel sheriff would kick him when he was defenseless. Maybe putting out his eyes. Or breaking his back.

  Fear of that ending drove him.

  “Atta boy Stockton! Take the sonuvabitch apart,” one of the Cross cowboys yelled.

  Rudolph Cross turned in his saddle and nodded his approval of the comment. Recovering his balance, Stockton swung again, catching Dane’s chest and driving pain deep into his body. The blow didn’t stop him and Dane closed in, landing a right-hand smash that drove deeply into Stockton’s belly, reinforced by his own unintentional grunt, followed by a left that crashed into his rib cage. And a simultaneous grunt.

  All of the air left Stockton and he bent over to stop the sudden awful pain.

  In a wild fury of blows that followed like wind, Dane’s right fist delivered an uppercut to Stockton’s chin, followed by a short left cross to the same point. His grunting was like a Gatling gun in support of his efforts. Stockton’s right fist bounced off Dane’s upper shoulder and Dane landed two blows into the bigger man’s stomach.

  Stockton stutter-stepped backward, holding both hands to his midsection. Dane rushed into him with a blur of punches that cut open Stockton’s cheek, spewing blood on both fighters, and spun his head sideways. A tooth flew from his bloody mouth.

  Wild-eyed and badly hurt, Stockton threw a brittle roundhouse that Dane blocked, and stepped into him with another uppercut to his stomach. Stockton wobbled and collapsed. A groan became a whimper. The only reaction was the sound of retching.

  Standing over him, Dane looked up at Cross. “How much do you want your nephew to take to satisfy your anger?”

  His face filled with anger, Cross ordered the two closest cowhands to get Stockton back on his horse.

  “Tell them to clean up the mess. I don’t want it in front of my shop.” Dane stepped through the doors, grabbed a gray towel lying on a three-legged chest just inside the doors, and returned, tossing it in Stockton’s direction. The cloth fluttered and landed on Stockton’s heaving back.

  A stocky rider with a tied-down hat and knee-length chaps slid from his horse. The man next to him followed, a Frenchman with a thick mustache and striped pants stuck into black boots. They walked over to Stockton and leaned over to help him up.

  “Sacre bleu. You will be sorry you did this,” the mustached Frenchman warned.

  “Clean it up.” Dane pointed at the regurgitation. “Do it now.”

  The stocky cowboy grabbed the towel and managed to scrape the mess into the towel with two vigorous swipes. He looked around for some place to put the wadded-up towel.

  “Take it with you. I don’t want it back,” Dane said, watching Cross and sliding his hand to his back to assure himself that his revolver remained where he had placed it.

  The gun remained. Unmoved. He was thankful. This wasn’t over, he was certain.

  “Quoi?” the Frenchman asked, anger close to his face.

  “You heard me.”

  The Frenchman muttered something in French that Dane didn’t understand, while the stocky cowboy held the balled towel away from his body. It took both cowboys to get the wobbly Stockton to his feet. He nearly collapsed again as they neared his horse, then the stocky rider grabbed Stockton by the belt in back with his free hand and the taller Frenchman grabbed him under his left armpit and almost lifted him into the saddle. The stocky cowboy shoved the towel into Stockton’s saddlebags and retreated to his own horse.

  Stockton stared vacantly at his uncle and muttered something unintelligible.

  “You disgust me. Some sheriff you are,” Cross growled, and turned his attention to Dane. “Smithy, do you have any idea of how much money my ranch brings to this pee-ass town? Torsmill exists because w
e let it.”

  Dane cocked his head to the side. “Cross, I am well aware of your importance to the town’s economy. You and the other ranchers around. We welcome all of you. But only if you obey our laws.” He pointed in the direction of Cross’s men. “If you and your men are staying, you’ll need to give up your guns. The sheriff can keep his.”

  A thick-chested Mexican called Big Juan, in the middle of the line of Cross cowboys, held up his rifle and snorted. “Come an’ git it, señor.”

  None of them saw Dane’s hand move until it flashed his Smith & Wesson revolver. “I will. Drop it or I’ll drop your boss.”

  “How long do you think you’re gonna live?” the bearded rider beside the Mexican challenged. His frowning eyebrows connected in one hairy line.

  “Long enough to kill your boss—and two more of you.”

  Rudolph Cross held up his gloved hand. “Stop it. We’re not staying. That all right with you, smith . . . Marshal?”

  “It is,” Dane said, his gun still pointed at Cross’s midsection. “As long as you leave Walker in the Longhorn to finish his sentence.”

  “What if he leaves with us?”

  “I’ll empty his saddle.” Dane’s eyes studied the cowhands for any signs of movement toward their guns.

  “You know, I think you would.” Cross studied Dane with a newfound respect.

  “Don’t try me. This isn’t worth blood and you know it.”

  Cross’s shoulders rose and fell. “I’m gonna have my boys get my wagon and buy some supplies. All right?”

  “Long as you pay the livery and the general store,” Dane said. “Does it take eight men to buy supplies? Just wondering.”