Wild West

by Elmer Kelton

  Best of all, he had a message in his pocket, and it held the Underwood & Watson signature. He had wired Oliver Underwood that he was bringing out the first bunch of Rafter T cattle. At present market prices, he had said, they should pay well over half of the interest due. Another herd like it would finish up the interest and pay off some of the principal.

  Moreover, he had found a new trail to market and believed that from now on the Rafter T would be a good financial risk.

  COLT SIZE

  As dusk closed in, Tom Binford glanced at the little boy huddled beside him on the springy buckboard seat.A trace of tears shone in the kid’s eyes again.

  “We’ll be home pretty quick, Danny,” Tom said tenderly. “Your grandad’ll be glad to see you. And there’s a mighty pretty girl who’ll fix a warm supper for us.”

  Looking down at the child’s freckled face, Tom remembered the boy’s mother, pretty Lora Summers. Tom had once thought he loved her, when he was a cowboy on her father’s ranch; but that was before Barney Driscoll had swept her off her feet, and talked her into eloping with him. Only after the marriage had Lora realized Driscoll had wanted nothing but her inheritance.

  Driscoll, though, had defeated his own purpose. After six years of living with his drunken cruelty and hatred, Lora had died.

  She had left Driscoll nothing but a four- year-old son whom he didn’t want.

  Now, two years later, the boy’s grandfather lay dying. Old Frank Summers had been smashed up by a runaway team which had wrecked his wagon on the crooked road that led to Rocky Wells.

  Feebly he had asked Tom Binford to find his grandson and bring the lad to him.

  After two weeks of following Driscoll’s sign from one West Texas town to another, from saloon to saloon, Tom had found the boy, hungry and lonely, shut in a dingy room above a rank-smelling bar.

  Angrily Tom had led the youngster down to where his father was sitting on the losing end of a poker game. Eyes blazing, Driscoll had risen drunkenly and slapped the youngster across the face.

  “I told you to stay in your room!” he snarled. “Now git up there!”

  Blinding anger had run through Tom, and he had piled into Driscoll, swinging, pounding, smashing. Then he had stood swaying over the half-conscious man, his bruised fists clenched.

  “You’re not fit to have a son!” he had said. “I’m takin’ this boy back to his grandad. And if you ever come after him, I’ll kill you!”

  Maybe Tom hadn’t realized then what he had said, but he knew now. When old Frank died the boy would inherit the ranch, and Barney Driscoll would be sure to try to take it for himself.

  In the darkness that gathered ahead, Tom could see the ranch. A warmth rose in him as he thought of the way Della Graham would smile when the buckboard pulled in. Maybe she had finished her wedding dress while he had been gone.

  But a doubt tugged at him as he considered her reaction to Danny. What would she think about their starting life together with a six-year-old foster son who belonged to neither of them—particularly when she remembered that Danny was the son of a woman Tom had once hoped to marry?

  His heart was beating faster when he pulled up at the kitchen door of the frame ranch house. Della Graham stepped out, her blond hair shining like gold in the yellow light of the lamp behind her.

  Tom climbed down off the buckboard and kissed her warmly. “How’s Frank?” he asked her then. “I’ve got his grandson here.”

  Della sadly shook her head. “You’re too late, Tom. He wanted to hold out till you got back. But he died a few hours ago.” Tom couldn’t say anything.

  Della reached for the frightened boy. “Come on, fellow,” she said tenderly. “We’ll take care of you til your daddy comes to get you.”

  Quickly Tom found his voice. “His dad won’t ever get him again. We’re keepin’ him!”

  Della looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. Tom carefully lifted Danny down, heat roiling within him. “See those bruises on his face? See how he trembles when you speak to him? You think I’ll ever let him go back to a dad who’d treat him like that?”

  Della’s lips moved, but she said nothing. Still burning inside, Tom tried vainly to read what was in her eyes. Finally she spoke again.

  “Then you’ll likely have to fight, Tom. Old Frank told us he was leaving everything to this boy. You think the father won’t try to get Danny back?”

  In the days that followed the funeral, Danny seemed to lose his fear. He followed Tom, and Della’s father, the retiring foreman, all over the ranch. He was interested in everything he found—the doggie calves in the milk pen, the half-wild cats that stayed in the barn, the chickens Della kept to furnish eggs for the ranch.

  Tom grinned when he saw the youngster shine up his new brass-toed boots, or spied him proudly watching his shadow as he road along on the paint pony Tom had given him.

  But Tom always watched the road from town—watched for Barney Driscoll. And he worried about Della. Though her father was about ready to leave the foreman’s job to Tom and move to his own little ranch, Della hadn’t said a word lately about the wedding. What if she didn’t want to keep the boy?

  The small ranch crew was having its noon meal one day when a buckboard came ratting up in front of the house. A moment later big Sheriff Will Yarby stepped through the door.

  “Howdy, folks,” he greeted pleasantly. “Sorry to bust up your dinner, but I got a little business.” Another man walked in, and a sudden tautness went through Tom. It was Barney Driscoll!

  “I’ve come to get my son,” Driscoll announced grimly. He smelled strongly of liquor. “And I’ve made out charges against you, Binford, for kidnappin’.”

  Raw anger rising in him, Tom stood up and shoved his chair out of the way. He glanced at Danny, and saw the youngster shrink back, terror in his eyes.

  “You’re not taking him!” Tom declared hotly. Then he turned to the sheriff. “Will, you can’t give this boy to him. All Driscoll wants is the ranch Frank Summers left. He’ll mistreat Danny just like he always did!”

  The lawman sadly shook his head. “Sorry, Tom. He’s the boy’s daddy, and I got a warrant for you. I got to take you in.”

  Driscoll smirked. “Maybe you’d like the inheritance for yourself, Binford. Or maybe its’s because you were in love with Danny’s mother!”

  Tom choked back a hot reply and fought a blinding urge to smash Driscoll’s face. He shot a quick glance at Della, but her eyes betrayed nothing.

  Yarby muttered angrily, “Shut up, Driscoll. Just because you got the law on your side is no excuse for you to blow off that way.” Then the officer turned to the girl. “Get the boy’s things, Della. And, Tom, you’ll have to come with us.”

  Fury rode in Tom as he waited. Then he glanced at a shotgun propped up in the nearest corner. He caught Mort Graham’s eyes and winked.

  Moving swiftly, Tom shoved the table forward. Driscoll grunted and buckled as it hit him in the stomach. Tom grabbed up the shotgun. It wasn’t loaded, he knew, but neither the sheriff nor Driscoll would want to take a chance.

  Catching his breath, the lawman grinned. “Might’s well sit down, Driscoll. Looks like we’ll have a long wait.”

  Face livid with rage, Driscoll exploded, “You’ll pay for this! All of you!”

  Della’ blue eyes were wide with excitement as she came out and gave the boy his small bag of belongings. Tom handed the shotgun to Della’s father and signaled for Danny to follow him.

  “Dump some food in a sack for us while we saddle up,” he yelled back at Della. He grabbed Danny’s hand and quickly led the boy to the barn. A moment later their horses were saddled and the rest of the mounts had been chased off into the pasture. Della came running out with a canteen and a sackful of food.

  Her eyes glistened as she stopped in front of Tom. “Are you sure this is right?” she asked.

  “Maybe not, but it’s better’n lettin’ Driscoll get the boy back,” Tom replied. “We’ll hole up in that old nester dugout on the
south side of the ranch. And, Della, see if there isn’t somethin’ Judge Matlock can do.”

  From the house came frenzied sounds of a struggle. Tom quickly kissed Della, lifted Danny up into the saddle, and mounted.

  Driscoll burst out of the kitchen door, a gun in his hand. Tom slapped Danny’s pony on the rump and spurred away. He saw flame spout from Driscoll’s gun and heard the buzz of the bullet. The gun spoke again, and Danny gave a startled cry. He dropped his bag and swayed over the saddle horn.

  Dry-lipped, Tom caught the boy and held him in the saddle as he spurred on toward the protecting line of brush. Panic surged through him as he saw Danny’s face whiten, and felt warm, sticky blood on the boy’s sleeve.

  He knew the bullet hadn’t been meant for the boy, but he swore bitterly against any man who would be so careless with his son’s life.

  Moments later, in the protection of the thick mesquite, Tom pulled up and dismounted. He lifted the frightened youngster out of the saddle and tore open his sleeve. The bullet had passed through without touching the bone—but Torn knew the boy would soon be sick from shock.

  When the wound was bandaged, he put Danny back onto the saddle and headed for the dugout. The sun was low in the west when he lifted the weakened lad down again and carried him into the dark, musty old dwelling. Tenderly he put Danny on a cot.

  Danny’s forehead was hot, and his eyes were a little glazed. Shock had sapped his strength.

  Anxiety was like drying rawhide around Tom’s heart and he built a fire to boil some water. The youngster never whimpered as Tom carefully cleansed the wound.

  It was a long, painful night for Tom as he sat on the edge of the cot, watching the boy’s chest in its faint, irregular heave and fall. Time and again he felt the warm forehead, and swore softly when he caught himself dozing off.

  Shortly after dawn, Danny awakened and tried to sit up. But he sank back with a weak cry.

  “Where’s Della?” he asked softly. “Why isn’t she here?”

  Tom gripped the boy’s hand.

  “We’ll see her before long,” he assured Danny, and felt pleasure when the youngster smiled. Then he took the bandage off.

  A new fear assailed him—the wound was turning blue!

  Sick at heart, Tom bandaged the arm again, and walked to the low door of the dugout. The boy had to have a doctor, but the minute they showed up in town …

  Slowly he walked back and looked down at the boy’s white face. If they stayed here, the youngster might die. If they went to town, Tom would be shoved into jail and Danny given back to Driscoll.

  Tom fought the tightness which clutched at his throat. There wasn’t any choice. They had to go to town!

  He turned the paint pony loose and held Danny in front of him on the saddle as they headed for Rocky Wells. It seemed hours before they turned into the crooked, winding road that was the last lap of the way.

  Sleepiness stung Tom’s eyes, but he held grimly onto the boy. They passed the spot where the runaway team had piled up old Frank Summers’ wagon. Then the town of Rocky Wells pushed up out of the rolling rangeland. Riding along the dirt street toward the doctor’s house, Tom sadly looked down at the white, young face which lay against his chest.

  This is the end of the line for us as a team, Danny, he thought grimly.

  Then he carried Danny into the house and the baldish, gray-bearded doctor examined the boy’s arm.

  “Good thing you brought him in, Tom,” the medical man said. “He might’ve gotten gangrene if he had stayed in that dugout. You used good sense, son.”

  A few minutes later Sheriff Will Yarby walked in. “I heard you’d come back, Tom. Guess you know I’ve got to arrest you,” he said apologetically.

  Tom nodded. “Let’s go, Will.” Little Danny raised himself up on his good arm. “Tom,” he said weakly, “you’re not gonna leave me, are you?”

  The heavyset sheriff stood uncertainly, his face softening. He studiously rubbed the back of his neck. Then he said, “No sonny, he’s not goin’ any place.”

  Softly he said to Tom, “I’ll leave you with him, if you promise not to try running off again.”

  Tom agreed.

  Will Yarby paused in the doorway. “I’ll send Della over right away. I’ll have to bring Driscoll over, too. Don’t you go losin’ your head.”

  In a few minutes Della came running in and threw herself into Tom’s arms “Oh, Tom,” she cried, “why did you come back? You haven’t a chance now.”

  “I had to,” he told her quietly. “Danny’s hurt.”

  Her face went pale, and she stepped quickly to the bed where the boy lay. She took his hand and smiled weakly down at him as the lad opened his eyes.

  “How bad is it?” she asked the doctor.

  Tom moved to her and put an around her shoulder. The doctor told her the boy would be all right, if given good care. Tom felt a warm glow inside as he saw the way she looked down at Danny. She did love him, he was sure.

  The door swung open and Driscoll stalked in belligerently, followed by Sheriff Yarby and Judge Matlock. Driscoll reeked of whisky, and his bloodshot eyes were full of hatred.

  “So you brought him back,” he snarled. “Try and get that ranch away from me, will you? I’ll have you sent to the pen for so long you’ll never get out!”

  He turned to the physician and demanded, “Wrap that kid up. I’m takin’ him out of here!”

  Alarmed, the doctor protested, “He’s in no shape to travel. He’s got to stay here and rest.”

  Driscoll cursed. “Stay here so they can steal him again, you mean? They think if they can keep the kid they’ll get the ranch. Now bundle him up! I got a buckboard outside.”

  Angrily Tom stepped toward Driscoll, fists clenched. The sheriff grabbed his arm. “Hold it, Tom. You’re under arrest, you know.”

  Judge Matlock reached inside his huge coat and pulled out a document. “Just a minute, all of you. Since there seems to be so much worry about who’s to get the ranch,” he said, looking coldly at Driscoll, “maybe I’d better read Frank Summers’ will again.”

  Della’s hands gripped Tom’s arm as the judge read aloud. Tom caught the jurist’s emphasis on the part which said Judge Matlock was named administrator of the estate.

  The big man cleared his throat. “Now, in view of the fact that I haven’t time to run such a ranch myself, I’ll have to appoint someone to manage it for the boy, in a regular foreman’s capacity.”

  Driscoll grinned. “That’s me. I’m his father.”

  The judge glared at him. “It’ll be whomever I choose to name. A few minutes ago you were willing to risk the boy’s life to carry him away from here, to make sure of getting the ranch. That shows you have no interest in the lad’s own welfare.

  “I know someone else who loves the boy, though, loves him enough to risk losing everything he has to save the youngster’s life.”

  The judge turned to Tom. “Tom, I’m appointing you to manage Frank Summers’ estate.”

  Tom squeezed Della’s hands and looked happily at Danny.

  “It’s a trick!” bawled Driscoll, his face crimson. “You’re tryin’ to cheat me out of what’s mine, but it won’t work!”

  In a flash he reached under his coat and snaked out a six-gun.

  “As long as you don’t have the kid you can’t take the ranch. And the brat’s goin’ with me!”

  His bloodshot eyes were ablaze, and his gun hand trembled dangerously from the effects of his drinking. Keeping everyone covered, he stepped back to the bed. Danny whimpered with pain as his father picked him up.

  “The man is drunk—crazy mad!” Tom breathed, a million fires blazing within him.

  Backing out the door, Driscoll heaved the youngster onto the buckboard seat. Climbing up, he flipped the reins, and the team surged forward. The buckboard veered crazily and skidded around a corner on two wheels.

  “He doesn’t even know where he’s goin’!” Tom shouted excitedly. “He’s headed for the road that
killed Frank Summers!”

  His heart thumping, Tom dashed for his horse, swung into the saddle, and spurred after Driscoll. Wind whipped in his face as he slowly closed up the distance between him and the buckboard. Then Driscoll was on the treacherous, crooked road. The buckboard bounced, skidded, and cut corners.

  A prayer was on Tom’s lips as he watched Driscoll whipping the team for even more speed. He had to get Danny off that buckboard before Driscoll killed them both.

  Bending low over the saddle horn, he spurred again and again. Dust boiling up from the bouncing vehicle stung his eyes, Driscoll started shooting at him. Heart pounding dully, Tom heard the bullets zip by. Then the gun was empty, and Driscoll hurled it back at him.

  Tom closed in, and finally pulled up alongside the racing buckboard. As he reached out to grab Danny off the seat, Driscoll cracked a whip at him. Tom smothered a cry of pain as the lash burned across his shoulders. Driscoll cursed and drew back for another swing

  Quickly Tom caught Danny and pulled him off the buckboard. Face livid with fury, Driscoll tried to jerk the racing team around. They turned sharply. There was the rending, crushing sound of splintering wood as the buckboard’s coupling pole snapped. The front wheels jerked loose, and the vehicle seemed to stand on its side a second.

  Driscoll’s cry was cut short as the buckboard heaved over and crashed down on him. Then there was only the sound of the spinning rear wheels, and the panicked team galloping away.

  Danny began to cry. Tom carefully swung down and put the lad on the ground. Dropping his reins, he trotted over to the wrecked buckboard—but there wasn’t any use. It had fallen on Driscoll before his body had straightened out. His neck was broken.

  His mouth dry from the choking dust, Tom turned and walked slowly back to the sobbing boy. He put his hands on Danny’s thin shoulders and turned the lad around to face the back trail. A billowing cloud of dust showed where another buckboard was moving rapidly toward them.