The Way Of The West

by Elmer Kelton

  Laughing and chiding each other, all of the riders raised their hands. The grizzled roper held up his left arm, the one not in a sling.

  Reicker acknowledged their identification and turned to the blacksmith. “Ya be doin’ any cross-examination, Mr. Dane?”

  Tatum’s expression popped into uneasiness. “What do you mean?”

  “Different use of the word ‘cross.’ Rudolph Cross can’t protect you here. The judge means you’re going to have to tell the truth, Tatum,” Dane said, standing and walking toward the seated foreman. “You gave your oath to that. You realize if you lie in this courtroom you can go to jail.”

  “I told the truth.”

  “Really? Let’s take a look at it, shall we?” Dane said and stood a few feet in front of Tatum. “I’ve got a witness who will swear I was out there in a buggy with Miss Tressian. For a picnic.”

  “Never saw no buggy. No gal with you either.” He glanced at Stockton, who looked away.

  “Be careful, Tatum. This is a courtroom. You’re not back at the Cross Ranch,” Dane said.

  Tatum’s fleeting glimpse at Cross came back to Dane as a frown.

  Hogan yelled out, “So what if ye be havin’ a buggy?”

  Reicker told the cowboy to be quiet and asked Dane to proceed.

  “All right, Tatum. If I shot at you boys from ambush, where was I?”

  “Ah, behind a tree near the pond. An old cottonwood tree. Yes sir, that’s it,” Tatum hurried his answer. A bead of sweat glistened from his forehead.

  “So I opened fire on seven armed men from behind a cottonwood—with a revolver, is that it?”

  The room burst into nervous laughter.

  Tatum edged forward in his chair. “It wasn’t like that.”

  Dane walked away from him, headed toward where Stockton sat, then spun around to face the foreman. “How did I know you were going to be there?”

  Red wandered up from Tatum’s neck. “How the hell should I know? I ain’t your keeper.”

  Chuckles came from the Cross tables.

  “Well, that’s an interesting response, Tatum. Do you really think a busy blacksmith would ride out there, hide behind a tree, and hope you might come some time, but not knowing when?” Dane’s mouth curled into a snarl. “Or isn’t the truth that you and your men came upon our buggy . . . Miss Tressian and myself . . . and tried to kill me? Isn’t that how I got these cuts and bruises on my face, and this rope burn on my neck? Isn’t that cut on your face from Miss Tressian fighting you with the buggy whip? Isn’t the only reason I’m alive today because I shot at the men who held me with ropes? Isn’t that the truth, Tatum? Tell me. Now.”

  “I protest, Judge. Dane’s trying to badger the witness,” Stockton said.

  “Didn’ sound like sech to me. Answer them questions, Mr. Tatum,” Reicker demanded. “Yur under oath, boy.”

  “While you’re at it, where’s Mary?” Dane stepped so close to Tatum that their boots touched. “If any of you bastards have hurt her, you’ll never have a safe day.”

  “Hey, that’s a threat,” Stockton yelled. “He’s threatening the witness.”

  Dane spun and walked over to Stockton’s table. “No, it’s not a threat, Stockton. It’s a promise.” He glared at Cross, who chuckled.

  The door of the restaurant burst open and an excited Mikman entered with a Winchester in his hands. “Ach du lieber! I haff found Miss Mary!”

  A step behind him came Mary Tressian. In her hands was the Colt she kept at her store. She stepped into the restaurant and pointed at Tatum. “That man and his henchmen tried to murder Mr. Dane. I was there. I saw it all.” She wiped a tear seeking relief from her left eye. “Two of those awful men came in to my home this morning and tied me up so I couldn’t be here.” She choked and swallowed. “They hit Tess and locked her up—sweet Tess—when she tried to stop them.”

  Behind her a few steps came a bewildered Tess. The side of her face was red. When she saw the Mexican and the Frenchman at the front table, she jumped and pointed. “That’s’em, Miss Mary. They hurt me. They tied you up. They did. They did.”

  From his far table, Lester Wilson sprang to his feet. “That’s been enough of this nonsense. Jericho Dane’s been an outstanding citizen, and an excellent marshal. He rented a buggy from me to take Miss Tressian for a picnic. She was with him.” He focused on Cross’s back. “I helped him from that buggy when they came in. He was all beat up. Had a rope burn on his neck. Those good-for-nothing Cross cowboys tried to kill him.”

  Holding his big Colt, Reicker declared, “I’ve dun heard’nuff. My rulin’ is self-defense, pure an’ simple. Mr. Dane’s innocent.” He pointed the gun in the direction of the rattled foreman. “Mr. Tatum an’ them other six riders are hereby charged wi’ assault an’ attempted murder. They’ll be held for trial.”

  Cross was on his feet. Spit flew from his mouth as he yelled, “You old goat! You aren’t holding my men. I run this county.”

  From behind them, Mikman declared, “Du do nicht own this town, Herr Cross. Those men are under arrest as Judge Reicker has ruled. Ja.”

  Both the mayor and Mary pointed their guns at Cross and waited. Grabbing the cowboy’s gun on his table, Reicker tossed it in Dane’s direction. The blacksmith caught the weapon, drew back the hammer and held it ready.

  Slowly pushing his chair back to the table, Cross walked toward the door without looking back or saying a word. Several of his men followed, including Hollis Walker. The cowboy paused and turned to look back at Dane.

  “Damn,” Walker muttered and walked on.

  As Cross reached the door, Marshal Anthony hurried over to tell him that he had a fine new suit made for him, a gift. Cross snorted, shoved him away and left.

  When Lecaunesse and Big Juan casually stood, Reicker barked, “Hold it ri’t thar. The six o’ ya—an’ Tatum hyar—stay put. ‘Member I know’d who ya be. I’ll shoot any o’ ya tryin’ to leave my court.”

  Stockton stood, nervously grasping and ungrasping the back of his chair. He found the courage to ask the judge where the men were going to be held until the trial. Reicker didn’t hesitate and declared they would be tied to the corral outside the livery. He looked back at Lester Wilson, who nodded his approval.

  “I declare this hyar hearin’ adjourned. It’s over.” Reicker waved his gun for emphasis.

  “Judge, wait a minute,” Dane said. “Tess pointed at the men who tied Mary—and hurt her. Who were they?”

  Mary pointed at Lecaunesse and Big Juan. “Those two. They did it.”

  Glancing at Mary Tess began jumping and pointing.

  His eyes full of fury Dane moved toward them and only Mary’s words stopped him. “Don’t, Jericho. Tess and I are all right. I promise.”

  Reicker said, “We’ll add assault to their charges.”

  On the way to his ranch, an enraged Rudolph Cross began barking orders. He wanted his men to take over Kill Pond and hold it, no matter what. He would lead the attack himself. He would also send a rider to Waco to find the noted gunfighter, Greystoke Matson.

  Cross had talked about it before. He looked around and his eyes settled on the young, bucktoothed rider. He told him to get a fresh horse and supplies when they got to the ranch.

  “Find Greystoke Matson. Tell him I’ll pay anything he wants,” the big rancher said, then corrected himself. “No, I’ll give you a note for him. I’ll pay him five hundred dollars to shoot that damn blacksmith.” He wiped his hand across his mouth to remove the spittle. “I’ll pay him the same to get rid of Clell Edwards, too. And that idiot mayor. And that damn old judge. I’ll give you some money to take along to pay for his expenses.” He glared at the riders. “It’s way past time we took control, boys.”

  The bucktoothed rider proclaimed, “Hell, boss, I’ll get rid of that blacksmith for a hundred.”

  “Yeah, and Stockton was gonna whip his ass—an’ then he was gonna hang him,” Cross declared, yanking on the reins to keep his horse from lowering its head. “N
o. We’re gonna turn Kill Pond into the Cross Pond.” He smiled and looked around for support. “Greystoke Matson will do the cleaning up.”

  Positive remarks erupted as he viewed each rider. Even Stockton muttered his agreement through swollen lips.

  “Stockton, you’re gonna get with that idiot town marshal, the clothes-makin’ bastard,” Cross growled. “My boys aren’t gonna stay tied to no goddamn corral. Get’em loose. I don’t care how you do it, but do it.” He pushed against his cheek with his tongue. “Send’em to the north-line shack. Tell’em to stay there until I say different.”

  XI

  Two weeks later, the town was still buzzing over the escape of the seven Cross men from the jail-corral. It had happened a week ago, at night. Marshal Anthony claimed no knowledge of the situation and refused to form a posse to look for them, stating he had no jurisdiction outside of town. Reicker and Mikman were furious, but the town council stood behind Anthony. Sheriff Stockton hadn’t been in town since the Dane hearing.

  But a new subject for town gossip had just arrived. Greystoke Matson stepped off the morning stage and changed everything with nothing more than the implied threat of his presence. People up and down the main street chattered about the dashing appearance of the well-known pistol fighter. The so-called jailbreak was forgotten for the moment.

  They were fascinated by his long blond hair resting on his shoulders, set off by a wide-brimmed, flat hat; his matching pearl-handled pistols stuck in a red sash under a fashionable cutaway coat; his knee-length boots with the inlaid leather tops and the big Mexican silver spurs making sweet music as he sauntered around the coach to get a first look at the town.

  No one seemed to notice Greystoke Matson carried a Bible in his left hand.

  Mostly, though, the town talked about the reason for Matson being in Torsmill. It seemed obvious enough: Rudolph Cross had hired him. On the day before the corral escape, Cross’s men had taken control of Kill Pond, and now guarded it night and day with armed men. They had also taken control of all the grazing land around the water. Attempts by the small ranches to drive them off had been futile.

  The flamboyant gunfighter stretched and accepted his valise from the driver, who was exceptionally polite. The sideburned driver spat a long stream of tobacco juice and recommended the Vander Hotel.

  Matson handed the driver a coin and asked him to take his luggage to the hotel, and that he would be along shortly.

  “Ah, sure. Sure thing, Mr. Matson,” the driver said, spat again. “Soon as I get the rest of this luggage out.”

  “I see. Where can one get a reasonably good meal?” Matson asked, setting the valise beside the driver and adjusting his wide-brimmed hat to shield the aggressive sun. He was a precise man, priggish, speaking with the high-pitched steel of growing up in northern Maine.

  “Ah, Carter’s restaurant. Over there. Most folks speak kindly of it.”

  “I will let you know if your recommendation was worthy.” Matson walked away without looking at the driver.

  The other passengers exited the coach and watched Matson head for the restaurant, and waited for their baggage to be lifted down. One passenger in a wrinkled suit noted that Matson had read the Bible most of the way.

  Matson entered the restaurant, strutting like a grand duke. He paused and took in the nearly full establishment and headed for the farthest table, which was occupied.

  “Good morning to you, sir,” Matson said politely, standing beside the table.

  “Same to you,” came the annoyed reply from Gerald McCormick, who had just begun eating.

  “This is my table, sir,” Matson said in the same tone.

  “Naw, it’s mine.” The town’s lumber company owner shoved a large forkful of eggs and ham into his mouth, ignoring the cold-faced gunfighter.

  Without further comment, Matson grabbed McCormick’s shirt with his right hand and yanked him from his chair and onto the restaurant floor. The wooden chair sailed backward and banged against the far wall. Landing with a thud, the lumberman choked on his mouthful of food, then finally spit it out. Gerald McCormick stared up at Matson, a mixture of shock and infuriation on his face. Until he noticed the guns and realized who he was looking at.

  “A-are you t-the one t-they call t-the P-Preacher?” he asked without moving from his sprawled position. “T-the s-shootist?”

  “I have been called that, among other names,” Matson said shrilly.

  “Oh my, I didn’t realize,” McCormick said.

  “Waiter, this man wants his food moved over there.” Matson pointed at the paunchy waiter and then at a table halfway to the front. “He wants it moved now.”

  Hearing the noise, Henry Carter peered through the ajar kitchen door of his restaurant at the newcomer and the stunned townsman on the floor. Carter didn’t know who the stranger was and didn’t care. Carter swung open the door and went to the downed McCormick.

  “How did this happen, Mr. McCormick?” Carter said, looking at Matson, who had retrieved the chair and was seating himself at the table.

  Matson’s smile was like that of a wolf. “I don’t really know. One minute he was moving to a new table, the next he was down there. Clumsy, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Carter said.

  “It’s all right, my friend. Time for me to be going to work. I’m not hungry anyway.” McCormick placed a hand on Carter’s arm.

  Carter told the lumberman that he would bring him a new meal, at no cost to him. McCormick declined and hurried toward the door.

  Matson removed his hat and laid it on the table over the Bible he carried. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  Carter told the nearest waiter to bring a wet towel to wipe up the regurgitated food. Matson pointed To McCormick’s plate of food and asked that it be removed immediately. The mustached waiter handed the towel to Carter and stepped to the table and removed the plate, utensils and mug. Carter took the offered towel and picked up the food in it with one deft motion.

  “I will expect this table to be available at all times—for me,” Matson declared.

  “What?” Carter frowned and studied the gunfighter.

  “I said, ‘I will expect this table to be available at all times—for me.’” Without waiting for any response, Matson said, “I want hot tea, freshly brewed. Two eggs. Poached. As soon as the whites coagulate, remove them. Toast lightly buttered. Crusts removed.” He rubbed his chin. “If you have some good ham, I would like a slice. Not too thick. Some potatoes would be nice. If they’re thinly sliced and crispy.” Matson waved his hand to assist in his order without looking at the exasperated Carter.

  The waiter whispered into Carter’s ear and the owner frowned. He left and returned immediately with a cup brimming with hot tea.

  “Your breakfast will be ready shortly Mr. Matson,” Carter said, rubbing his hands nervously.

  “I am certain it will.” Matson reached for the sugar bowl and scooped a spoonful from it into the hot brew.

  He sipped his tea, decided it needed more sugar. He lifted his spoon again and was securing a heaping spoonful, appearing to not notice the frightful exiting of the other customers. He glanced at the good book beneath his hat. Reading it was a daily ritual, established by his mother. His older brother, David, did the same, and was a deacon in the church in the small town in Maine where they had grown up. He also owned a fine hotel.

  Greystoke Matson didn’t like attending church, but reading Scripture had become entwined in his habits, in spite of his deadly ways. Their mother had been a most righteous woman, who prayed often and thought Greystoke was earmarked for hell and David was a true blessing from God. She had died from pneumonia seven years ago, praying for Greystoke’s soul to the very end. Neither brother ever knew their father, but had been told the man was an itinerant preacher.

  Matson’s skill with a gun had been evident at an early age; he killed his first man when he was fourteen. The man had been flirting with his mother, wh
o took in laundry—and sometimes sold herself—to keep her family in food. She always asked God to forgive her afterward. The killing was the reason for his leaving Maine. In a hurry.

  Since then, he had made a good living doing what he was good at—killing—and avoiding scrapes with the law. His eight known kills had been accepted by respective local law as matters of self-defense. He prided himself on that. He had also sold his gun to several ranches across Texas to help end land disputes. Even wore a badge once. His brother had written to him, offering a partnership in the hotel, but Greystoke wasn’t interested.

  Newspapers had spread his exploits, as had several DeWitt Ten Cent Romance books and a story in Harper’s New Monthly. In those, he was presented as a hero with a gun. Several had him as a town marshal. He thought they were wonderfully funny.

  Carter brought the steaming plate, waiting for Greystoke Matson’s approval before retreating to the kitchen.

  “This will do, sir,” Matson declared. “Do you have any jam? Blackberry I am not interested in anything else.”

  “Yes. I’ll bring you some.”

  “I would have thought it would have already been on the table.”

  Matson ate slowly, chewing his food carefully and sipping his tea. It pleased him that his presence had created a stir. Finishing what he chose to eat, Matson returned his hat to his head, picked up his Bible and headed out.

  Carter watched him leave, deciding it was better to let him go without paying than to confront him. He shook his head and turned to the thickset cook, working on an order of fried eggs and ham.

  “Jesse, I’m going to go see the marshal. He should know this awful man is in town,” Carter said, taking off his apron.

  “You gonna let him eat here for free—all the time?”

  Carter chose not to answer as he left through the back door.

  At Anthony’s Tailor Shop, Carter found the dapper part-time lawman working on a suit for Sheriff Stockton. Anthony looked up from his new Edward Ward Arm & Platform sewing machine from London. He volunteered that the clothes would be a gift to cement the friendship between the town and the county sheriff.