by Elmer Kelton
“That’s real fine, Xavier,” Carter said impatiently. “Did you know the killer, Greystoke Matson, the one they call ‘the Preacher’ is in town?”
Anthony looked up from his sewing. “Really? How interesting.”
Carter explained what had happened in his restaurant, Matson’s demands and his leaving without paying.
“Now surely, my good friend, you don’t expect the marshal of Torsmill to interfere with what sounds like a simple case of misunderstanding.” Anthony shifted the garment to continue his stitching. “Who knows if Mr. McCormick’s falling down wasn’t an accident? Or why he decided to leave? He’s not been himself these days, you know.” He looked away for an instant. “If you don’t want to reserve a table for this Matson, tell him so. And go find him and ask for payment for his meal. I’m sure it was an oversight.”
“The man is carrying two pistols. In violation of the town ordinance.” Carter folded his arms. “What are you going to do about that?”
“At the moment, I’m busy, Carter, as I said.” Anthony reached for a pair of scissors. “Why didn’t you tell him of our town’s ordinance and ask for his guns?”
“There’s no way he would have given them to me.”
“Did you ask?”
Carter waved his arm in exasperation. “Better get ready, marshal. There’s going to be trouble. A man like Greystoke Matson doesn’t come to a town like Torsmill unless he’s got a job to do.”
“Really? And how do you know that?”
“Never mind.” Carter swung around and left.
As he returned to the restaurant, he glanced in the direction of Jericho Dane’s blacksmith shop. He wished the strong, capable blacksmith were still the law in town. He wouldn’t let someone like Matson go without a proper confrontation. He just wouldn’t. What in the world was the town council thinking?
By midday, two merchants had complained to Anthony about the gunfighter getting merchandise from them without paying. Of course, none had asked to be paid; they had either assumed he wouldn’t pay or didn’t want to run the risk of offending him. Nevertheless, they wanted the lawman to do something.
Strolling into the Tressian general store, Greystoke Matson touched his hand to his hat brim and acknowledged Mary’s presence. “Good afternoon, m’lady I am surprised to see so fine a flower in such a dismal settlement. Surely your stay is but temporary.”
“I grew up in this town, thank you,” Mary said sharply. “How may I help you?”
“I don’t suppose your place would have any books on poetry. Shelley? Keats?”
Mary pointed toward the rear of the store. “Books are displayed in the back. I believe there is a book of Tennyson there.”
“Ah, yes, indeed, that would do, if none else is available. I wouldn’t expect this town to have a taste for Shelley or Keats.”
After watching her customers quickly leave the store, Mary noticed the gunfighter walking back through the store, carrying a small book along with his Bible.
“I see you found something,” she declared.
Without slowing down, Matson nodded.
“You need to pay for it.”
He grinned and paused. “I have not had to pay elsewhere. I thought Torsmill was being kind to a stranger.”
“Don’t know about ‘elsewhere.’ But you pay here—or leave the book.”
The ominous sound of a gun’s trigger clicking into place made him turn toward her. Slowly. She held a Colt in both hands, aimed at his midsection.
“Well, they tell me if you’re in a gunfight, aim for the stomach. It’ll put your adversary out of commission immediately,” Matson said. “Most effective. They say.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mary said. “Are you buying the book—or leaving it?”
He chuckled. “I’m buying it. May I approach the counter?”
“Yes. You may also leave your guns here. They are not allowed in town.”
His shoulders rising and falling, Matson shook his head. “I’ll pay for the book. But I’ll keep my guns. Thank you, m’lady” He withdrew coins and placed them on the counter. With a touch of his hat brim again, he turned and left the store.
Mary placed her gun on the counter and began to cry.
Laughing to himself, Matson walked across the street, watching the traffic coming and going without slowing down. He headed toward Dane’s blacksmith shop; the steady pounding fascinated him. Rudolph Cross was clear about wanting this blacksmith dead, even though he was no longer the town’s law. He also wanted the local judge and the mayor killed as well. And the most vocal of the small ranchers, Clell Edwards.
Matson smiled. Killing the townsmen would be easy. It didn’t mean he would take less money, however. Killing the rancher would likely be more difficult since he would be surrounded by his cowboys most of the time. This blacksmith was alone, and the town—at least the town council—had rejected him. Matson decided he would get a handle on this blacksmith and then decide who would be killed first: Reicker, Mikman or Dane. It made good sense to get the tougher man out of the way first.
The pounding had stopped by the time the gunfighter crossed the street and drew near the shop. That silence bothered him. He didn’t like surprises. But he told himself the blacksmith had simply stopped to do something else. Pushing aside the doors, he strolled into the work area. The forge fire was a deep crimson and a long-legged bay horse was tied, waiting to be shod. But no one was there.
Then he heard a noise inside a small storeroom. The blacksmith must be in there, he guessed. He laid the two books on a three-legged chest with open, empty shelves next to the entrance, folded his arms and waited.
“What can I do for you, mister?” Dane’s voice came from behind the storeroom door, cracked slightly, enough for him to see through.
Matson’s arms dropped to his side. “Ah, I wanted to see about getting iron for my horse.”
“You just came in on the stage.”
Matson frowned and his anger flared. “I’m going to buy a horse. That all right with you?” He motioned toward the shed. “Why don’t you come out here so we can talk.”
“Come back when you’ve turned in your guns.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Torsmill is a peaceful town. We don’t allow guns in town.” Dane’s voice was hard.
“Are you saying you aren’t armed?” Matson’s mouth curled at the right corner and his right eyebrow arched in support.
“I don’t go around town with it. Just keep it here. In the storeroom.”
Matson licked his lower lip. “Not sure I believe that, blacksmith.”
“There’s one way to find out.”
Matson’s hands came up and away from his body. “Hey, I wasn’t looking for trouble. Just looking to see where I could get shoes for my horse.” He looked at the ground for a moment. “I’ll come back later.”
“Sure. Bring your horse. Leave your guns.”
After a few minutes, Dane emerged from the storeroom. His forehead was dotted with nervous sweat. It had just been happenstance that he needed more nails and they were in his shed. He glanced at his long coat hanging from the wall nail. His revolver was there; his new shotgun, at his house.
He grunted, went to the coat and retrieved the gun. He shoved it into his waistband under his work apron and went to the entrance to his work area and looked around. Matson was strolling down the sidewalk, swinging two books in his left hand; Dane watched him disappear into a saloon.
Touching the gun at his waist, the blacksmith knew the worst had come to Torsmill. Greystoke Matson wasn’t here by chance. He was here to take care of some business for Rudolph Cross. He was here to help the rancher take control of the region.
Then it dawned on him that Matson had likely come from Mary’s store. He hurried across the street, not stopping to remove his apron or put on his shirt.
Halfway across the street, Mikman hailed him. It was clear the mayor was coming to see him.
“Herr Marshal Dane, a word plea
se.” The gunsmith waved his arms and hurried to meet the concerned blacksmith in the middle of the street.
Dane gradually stopped, glancing in the direction of the general store.
A freight wagon lumbered past them and the driver swore his opinion of their being there.
“I haff come from der council meeting,” Mikman declared breathlessly. “Dey vant du to be der marshal.”
“I don’t understand. Did Xavier resign?”
A buckboard rumbled past them headed the other way. The rancher waved and they returned the greeting.
“Ja, he did so,” Mikman said. “Der three who voted him in asked him to do so. I told them du vould probably nicht vant this after der vay they treated du.”
Dane didn’t respond.
“I ask for this favor, Herr Marshal. Me. Personal it be.” Mikman rubbed his hands together. “Torsmill needs du. More than ever. I fear for this town.”
Dane nodded. “I will do it. For Torsmill.”
Mikman handed him the tin badge.
From the door of the general store, Mary came running. She had seen the exchange and knew what it meant. Tears had welled in her eyes by the time she reached Dane.
“You can’t do this, Jericho,” she pleaded. “You can’t. What about us? Doesn’t our life together mean anything?’
Mikman stepped away, unsure of what to do or say.
Dane bit his lower lip. “Mary, you are everything I’ve ever wanted, and more. But what kind of life together will we have if we let Cross rule us? And that’s what this is all about.”
“But can’t you wait? Maybe this awful man is just passing through.” Mary’s cheeks were lined with wetness.
“He will have a chance to leave.”
XII
That night was a sleepless one. Torsmill slept fitfully after a day of fear. Back at his house, Dane admitted to himself the responsibility of confronting Greystoke Matson was his, regardless of the consequences. He had accepted that when he took the badge.
Unable to sleep, he went to his shop and worked for several hours. No one heard the pounding or gunshots muffled by a towel. Returning to his home to prepare for the encounter, he fixed a pot of coffee, but it didn’t taste right. Pushing the cup aside, he wrote a note and placed it in an envelope addressed to Mary Tressian. Left it on his table. A farewell letter. And a statement of his enduring love.
His plan was simple. If he could catch Matson in his room, preferably sleepy, he might be able to talk him into leaving quietly. Of course, it could end in shooting. That was a risk he must take.
Certainly there was little chance the two of them could meet in public without one being forced to act. Facing him with others would only bring violence and good men would be killed. It had to be man-to-man. Dane had no intention of backing down from the likes of Matson, but he didn’t want to provoke trouble either. He was counting on being able to convince the gunfighter that he wouldn’t be able to kill him without getting hurt himself; he was counting on the hired gun being reasonable.
He was counting on a lot, he told himself. Buttoning his long coat and pulling his hat down on his head, he left his house. At his side was Mikman’s shotgun. In his coat pocket was his, 44 Smith & Wesson revolver. It carried five fresh cartridges as usual; nothing in the chamber where the hammer rested. Five extra bullets and five more shotgun shells jiggled in his other pocket. His left arm was awkwardly pushed against his coat as he strolled along the silent street. Stopping at his shop, he left five pieces of bread for the squirrel and went on.
No one was aware of his perilous undertaking. Certainly not Mary. Or Judge Reicker. Or Fred Mikman. Mary would have talked him out of his crazy idea. Or tried to. Reicker and Mikman would have wanted to go with him.
Soon dawn would discover the same tenseness that tightened around the town.
“Sweet hour of prayer . . . sweet hour of prayer . . . that calls me from a world of care,” he sang softly to himself, “and bids me at my father’s throne . . . and escaped the tempter’s snare. In seasons of distress and grief, my soul has often found relief . . . by thy return . . . sweet hour of prayer.” It seemed like the right song to sing. He had prayed at the table.
Pausing at the hotel’s double doors, he took a deep breath and entered. Oil lamps split the lobby into ragged spaces of dark and yellow. He was glad to see there were five of them and walked to the registration desk. The young clerk was asleep, snoring forcefully.
Dane laid his shotgun on the counter, grabbed the clerk by both arms and lifted his upper body upright from its comfortable position.
Startled and disoriented, the clerk cried out, “Wha-a-a! I’m not asleep . . . honest . . . I . . .”
“Quiet, Johnny. It’s me, Jericho. Jericho Dane. I need to talk to Greystoke Matson. What room is he in?”
“Ah, how . . . how can I help . . . you, sir?” the thinly built man, with acne controlling his face, said. He was flustered by the awakening.
Dane made no attempt to let him go and the clerk made no move to break the grip on his upper arms. The clerk’s eyes darted around the room, trying to avoid looking at the lawman holding him seemingly with little effort.
“Johnny, I want to see Matson. Now.”
“But, sir . . . but . . . that’s against hotel rules, you see . . .” The clerk was shaking. “I . . . can’t . . . I . . .”
“Johnny, I don’t have time for this. Get me the key,” Dane said, his voice graveled by impatience and tension.
“Y-yes-s-s . . . y-y-yes-s-s, s-sir,” Johnny managed to answer, looking like he might vomit.
Dane released him. The frightened man searched wildly for the right room key. Room twenty-three. Johnny remembered because the gunfighter had specifically requested that number; it had something to do with a woman; the clerk couldn’t remember what, though. Dane wasn’t interested. He rubbed his hands to relieve the nervous tingling running through them and rolled his shoulders to momentarily ease their heavy burden
There was time to change his mind; no one would know. Only he would know. But that was enough, he told himself.
Turning around, the clerk held out the key as if a piece of treasure. Color had left the thin man’s face. His eyes were watering. Dane declined; he only needed the room.
“Before you and I go up there, Johnny,” Dane said, “I need something I can write on. I’ll use this pen.”
Jerkily, the young clerk pushed away his lodging book and lifted an odd-shaped sheet of paper from the drawer. Dane quickly wrote several sentences on the sheet using the ledger pen. Occasionally, he glanced up the stairway to his left, like a deer drinking water at an open stream. His mouth was dry, too dry to swallow. His shoulders and neck ached. His forehead was tattooed with sweat.
Dane wiped away the wetness with his coat sleeve as the clerk tried to regain his composure. A growing wet stain near the front of the hotel man’s pants was evidence he had failed in that task.
“Johnny, I need your help for a minute up there. You won’t be in any danger, I promise.” Dane nodded toward the dark stairway. He picked up the shotgun and couldn’t help recalling that he had planned on using the gun in the fall to hunt grouse. The revolver in his pocket felt like a boulder.
Four steps from the top of the stairs, Johnny vomited. Twice. Dane waited while the sweating clerk wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. At the door to room twenty-three, they stopped. Dane slid past it three feet, standing tight against the wall. His shotgun was pointed where Matson would appear. He motioned for Johnny to stay against the wall on the other side. As directed, the clerk knocked hesitantly, shivering like a wet calf in a January wind. His hand shook so hard he could barely make it hit against the wood; his first attempts were barely heard.
Dane scowled and urged him to knock harder, his waving shotgun giving the instruction.
Gazing up at the hallway’s yellowed ceiling, Johnny swallowed hard and rapped loudly. Three times. Then twice more. Five, Dane thought. Good.
A sleepy voice
with an arrogant edge answered. “What the hell do you want?”
“I-it’s J-Johnny . . . f-from t-the front d-desk. I-I h-have, ah . . . a m-message . . . f-for you, M-Mr. M-Matson . . . ah, s-sir . . . pulesse, s-sir.”
“Well, shove it under the door and then leave me alone.”
Johnny responded with the request, pushed the folded sheet under the door and looked at Dane. After the marshal’s nod, the terrified clerk ran down the hall. At the top of the stairs, he vomited again. Dane could hear the gunfighter get out of his bed and go to the message. Silence of a minute seemed longer. Then came a short rattle at the lock. The door swung open. Inside was black. No further sound was heard.
Wiping his sweaty palms on his coat, Dane made two quick strides to the side of the doorway opposite where he had stood. He reviewed his earlier decision: a shotgun made a more formidable entrance, but it was likely to make Matson use his gun immediately. He hoped to avoid that. Popping open the shotgun, he removed the slugs, closed it and slid the gun into the darkened room.
Silence followed the thud and then a soft chuckle.
“Goddammit, man, I know you have another gun. Probably another greener.”
“Smith & Wesson.”
“That what you had in your shed?” Matson’s voice was indifferent.
“Didn’t have a gun in there.”
“Thought so.” Matson’s voice was annoyed.
“You have to watch us blacksmiths. We’re a sneaky bunch.”
A hearty laugh preceded Matson’s invitation. “Well, either come in, open the ball—or go home where you belong. I don’t like being jerked out of . . . my beauty sleep.” Matson’s voice was thick and smoky.
Dane took a shallow breath when he wanted more, inhaling to gather in all the courage loose in the hallway. Pulling the revolver from his pocket and cocking it, he stepped into the terrifying void. As he entered, he moved instinctively to his right, against the wall. He grunted slightly and was angry for it. His gun was held ready in his sweating hand.