Wild West

by Elmer Kelton

  “Well, if this is your home, where you been so long?”

  Toby hesitated, then shrugged. No use in trying to make a secret of it. The word would spread quickly enough, soon as anybody who knew him spotted him here in town.

  “I’ve been in jail,” he said. “For four years in the state penitentiary.”

  He thought the stableman was going to spill the bucket of oats. But the little man got control of himself and hurried on out the back door to the corral. There wouldn’t be any more questions out of him, Toby knew.

  The washstand was still where Roper had always kept it. Toby washed the trail dust off of his face and hands. He had shaved this morning. Feeling his chin, he decided that would do till he got home.

  One big job was ahead of him right now. He dreaded it in a way. All the long ride across more than half a state, he had thought about it, and knew it was something he had to do. He worried over it now, wondering if he could find the words he wanted.

  Toby started down the wheel-rutted street, afoot, toward the courthouse. It seemed to him that he could feel the eyes staring, the fingers pointing, and he knew it was his imagination running away with him. This had been one of the things he had dreaded most, his first time in Patman’s Lake, not knowing how the people were going to receive him.

  A cowboy came riding down the street toward him. Toby knew the face, although he couldn’t tie a name to it. He knew where the puncher had worked four years ago.

  Toby managed a smile and a quick howdy.

  The rider slowed, and recognition brought shock to his face. He stared at Toby a moment, muttered something in answer, and hurried his horse on down the street.

  No, Toby knew, it wouldn’t take long for word to get to the Damon Frost ranch. They wouldn’t be happy out there, some of them.

  Toby half hoped he would find the sheriff’s office empty, that he could put off the visit for a while.

  A girl was seated at the rolltop desk. She looked up quickly as Toby walked in the door. She was nineteen, maybe, or twenty. She stood up, a slender girl, almost thin. Her oval face lacked a little of being pretty. But a man would never let that bother him. Her eyes made up for it. They were wide, gray, expressive eyes. And because of them, he knew who she was. Sheriff Cass Duncan had the same kind of eyes.

  “I was looking for Cass,” he said.

  She was studying him with a quiet friendliness. “He’s down the street. He’ll be back in a minute. Won’t you sit down, Toby?”

  Her calling him by name brought momentary surprise. She knew who he was, all right. But more than that, it was the first time anybody had called him by his first name in years. Always it was just, “Hey, Tippett!”

  Seating himself, he stared at her. It was pleasant to look at a girl, especially when he had seen so few for such a long time.

  “You’re Cass’s daughter, aren’t you?” he asked.

  She nodded. “That’s right. I remember when they had you and Dodd Parrish here, in the jail out back. I used to bake a cake or a pie every day or two and take it to you.”

  Toby smiled at her. “I remember, too. I haven’t had any cooking like that since. But you’ve changed a lot. You weren’t more than fifteen or sixteen.”

  Her gaze was level, appraising. “You’ve changed a lot too, Toby. And all for the better, I’d guess.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. Toby stood up as Cass Duncan walked in through the door. The sheriff stopped short.

  “Toby,” he said. “Toby Tippett.”

  He lifted his hand uncertainly. Toby stepped forward and took it.

  “You’re looking good, son,” the sheriff said, the surprise fading.

  “I had a chance to do outside work most of the time. You’re looking good too, Cass.”

  The sheriff smiled. “My daughter’s cooking. She doesn’t believe in throwing anything away.”

  Cass Duncan was nearing middle age. His coarse black hair was shot with gray, and his mustache no longer was the raven black which Toby remembered from his boyhood. Cass had always been a kindly man. He could bawl out an unruly boy in a way that took the hide off. But there was always a grin and a handshake later, if it looked as if the boy deserved it.

  He had always been able to handle men, too. Not many of the backtrail kind ever stayed in Cass’s county long.

  “You figuring on staying here, Toby?” he queried.

  The young man nodded. “This is home, Cass. Folks may not take to me anymore. But I want to stay. I’m hoping they’ll let me.”

  The sheriff’s eyes appraised him. Toby felt the friendliness in them, yet he was still ill at ease.

  “Depends some on how you take the folks, Toby. I hope you didn’t come back with any grudges.”

  Toby shook his head. “No grudges, Cass. That’s what I came to tell you. I wanted you to know that I’ve got no hard feelings for what happened. I’m old enough now to realize that I got what I had coming to me, and no more.

  “I was just a wild kid then, young, dumb, and too well fed. I made my mistakes, and I’ve paid for them. What’s more, I’m glad I did.”

  Now came the hard part. He dug deep for the words.

  “You did me a big favor when you brought me in, Cass. If you hadn’t, I might have kept going on the same way. I was just rustling cattle then. But later it might have been killing. You stopped me in time, and I’m grateful to you. Now the account’s all squared. I intend to ride a straight road from here on out.”

  Cass Duncan’s eyes studied him. A warm smile came up into them. “I believe you, son. You don’t know how tickled I am to hear you say it.” He hesitated a moment. “There’s one thing that still bothers me, though. At the trial you and Dodd Parrish maintained all along that there wasn’t anybody involved but just the two of you. Everybody knew there had to be more. But you two boys went on and took all the punishment. Maybe now you’d like to tell me the rest of the story.”

  Warily Toby shook his head. “No, Cass. Even if there had been anybody else with us—and mind you, I’m not saying there was—don’t you think they’d have learned their lesson from what happened to Dodd and me?”

  The memory of Dodd Parrish was always painful to Toby. He’d taken sick and died the second winter.

  Cass shrugged, still smiling. “I reckon so, Toby. Leastways, the cow stealing stopped around here after you two boys went up.”

  Toby nodded. That was the way he had hoped it would be.

  “Now, Cass, let’s talk about something else. Tell me what has happened since I’ve been gone. How’s Ellen Frost?”

  Mention of the name brought a slow frown to the sheriff’s face. “Ellen? Oh, she’s doing fine, I guess. Got half the young men in the country after her—after her and her dad’s money. You were going with her, weren’t you?”

  Toby nodded again. “Yes. We had sort of an understanding that someday we were going to get married. She wrote to me for a while, but the letters finally stopped.”

  There was pain in his face now. He had tried for a long time to reconcile himself to the idea that she was lost to him. But he never had been able to. The memory of her was as fresh as if he had seen her yesterday. It had always been so.

  Something was troubling Cass Duncan. He frowned and tightened his fist, studying the toes of his old scuffed-up boots. The girl was watching Toby, her eyes saying nothing.

  “Look, Toby,” Cass said, “I know how you feel. But you better stay away from the Frost place. It’ll only mean trouble for you if you go out there.”

  Toby peered closely at him. “Old Damon Frost?”

  Duncan’s eyes said yes. “He was awful bitter about you, son. He’d have gotten you two hung, if he could have. He’ll never in a hundred years believe you’ve reformed. Give him the slightest excuse and he’ll hound you till he’s got you back in jail—or dead!”

  Toby pondered that. “I don’t want trouble, Cass. Not with old Damon or anybody else. I’ll watch out, I promise you. Then he changed the subject. “You
seen Dad lately?”

  Cass nodded.

  Toby said, “He never was much of a hand to write letters. I got a few from him, but they were always short. Looked like he sweated blood, just writing that much. I’m sure anxious to see him.”

  Duncan avoided Toby’s eyes. “Toby, there’s something else. You’re going to find that your dad has changed some.”

  Fear hit Toby like the strike of a club. “He’s sick or something?”

  “Not sick, exactly. It’s just that—well, he’s had it pretty hard since you’ve been gone. It’s taken less than that to break some men. And Sod Tippett’s old.”

  Toby’s throat swelled. He looked at the floor, and remorse burned in him like a banked fire. Toby had been the only son born to a man already in middle age, the son who had become everything to Sod Tippett after his wife died. Sod had drudged for years on the little ranch that was half his and half the bank’s. He had done it for his son, and all be had ever asked in return was Toby’s love.

  And Toby repaid him for those years by leaving his father to face his old age alone, with nothing remaining to him but his smashed dreams and misery of soul.

  The knowledge of this, and the bitter driving of his conscience, had been with Toby a long time now. They had done much to carve the lines in his face and burn the foolish gleam of kid wildness out his eyes.

  “It may be too late, Cass,” Toby said with sincerity. “But if there’s any way I can, I’m going to make it up to him. I’ll work till I drop in my tracks, if I have to. I’m going to repay him for all those wasted years.”

  Cass Duncan and his daughter watched through the window as Toby walked out the big frame courthouse and down the street.

  The girl asked, “What do you think, Dad?”

  Cass placed his hand on his daughter’s slender shoulder. “I think he means it, Betty. I think he wants to go straight.”

  She frowned. “What about the people here? Will they let him?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t know, Betty. I don’t know.”

  * * *

  Ahead of him, bathed in the cherry glow of the newly risen sun, Toby Tippett could see the house where he had been born. His heartbeat quickened. His throat tightened to the quick rush of memories, and anticipation seeing his father again.

  The thought of it had kept him awake all night, lying in the livery stable’s hay and watching the twinkle of stars through the big open door. Sometime after midnight, unable to contain himself, he had saddled up and hit the road south.

  He dropped the reins over a picket in front of the house. There was a sag to the fence, and the house had fallen into poor repair in four years’ time. The barn is missing some shingles, too, he saw at a glance. Well, he’d fix that. Maybe it was a good thing. Lots of work was what he needed.

  His hand trembled as he reached for the knob and pushed the door inward. He blinked at the sting in his eyes. Sod Tippett was faced away from him, stooped over the woodstove where bacon sizzled in a frying pan, and coffee boiled in a smoke-blackened pot.

  “Hello, Dad,” Toby spoke tightly.

  The old man straightened a little and froze there. Then, slowly, he turned, his faded eyes wide in unbelief, his jaw agape.

  “Toby!” he whispered. “Son!”

  Toby took three long strides across the room and threw his arms around the stooped, frail shoulders.

  For a long time no words passed between them. They just looked at each other, throats too tight for talking. Hunger had been gnawing at Toby for a long time, because he had never gotten around to eating any supper last night. Now, with breakfast in front of him, he was just content to sit and look at the man across the table.

  Sod Tippett was old now, old even beyond his years. Toby had been expecting it, but the shock had staggered him, actually seeing the change that four hard years had beaten into his father.

  “Son,” the old man asked finally, “you’re out for good? You’re going to stay?”

  “Yes, Dad. I’m here to stay.”

  He thought he could see the thin old shoulders heave with controlled emotion, and he looked to the warped plank flooring that hadn’t been clean in a long time.

  After a bit, Sod Tippett had a grip on himself. “Son,” he said, “I knew you’d be coming home soon. I could feel it. Just the other day, I was telling your mother, ‘Toby’s on the way home.’”

  Toby’s jaw fell, and suddenly there was ice at the pit of his stomach. Now he realized fully what Cass Duncan had been trying so painfully to tell him.

  “I was telling your mother…” old Sod Tippett had said; but Toby’s mother had been dead for fifteen years!

  Sod had finally loosened up, and now he was talking freely. Toby sat there nodding, hearing little of what was said. He covered his face with his hand.

  The riders came in the early afternoon. Toby was up on the house, checking the cracked shingles and trying to find the spots that would have to be patched. He heard the clatter of hooves and looked out across the big corral. He saw the four horsemen rein through the wide gate and head up toward the house. At the distance, and with four years’ absence behind him, it was hard to recognize most of the men, but there was no mistaking the man who rode in the lead.

  This was Damon Frost, and the grim set of his square shoulders made it plain that he wasn’t here to say howdy.

  Toby eased down off of the roof and waited in front of the house.

  As the riders reined up, he stepped forward and held out his hand toward Damon Frost.

  “It’s been a long time, Mr. Frost,” he said pleasantly. “You’re looking good.”

  Frost made no move to grip Toby’s hand. Instead, he pulled his right hand even farther back, near his belt. His square face was set in a hard scowl. The years hadn’t changed him much. A little more gray in his hair and his thick mustache, maybe, and a little more weight around his middle. Nothing like the changes in old Sod Tippett.

  Toby glanced at the other three men. One was the cowboy who had seen him yesterday in town. Another was Marvin Sand. Sand was two or three years older than Toby. He had worked for Damon Frost a long time. Toby remembered lots of things about Marvin Sand, few of them with pleasure.

  The fourth man was Damon’s son, Alton Frost. Alton was just about as old as Toby. They had been friends since they had both been in the paint pony and marbles age.

  “Howdy, Alton,” Toby smiled. “It’s sure good to see you.”

  Alton Frost glanced uncertainly at his father. Yes, old Damon still ruled his family with an iron hand. Or he tried to. Alton flashed a quick, uneasy grin at Toby. “How’ve you been, Toby?”

  “Tolerable. How’s Ellen? I’m sure anxious to see her.”

  It was Damon Frost who replied to that. “That’s one reason I came over here, Tippett. Ellen doesn’t want to see you. You’ll leave her alone.”

  Toby tried hard to keep some trace of pleasantness in his face. But it was draining fast, and anger was seeping in. “Did she tell you to tell me that?”

  Frost’s face darkened. “I’m telling you, stay away from her. I’ll have no cow thief even talking to my daughter.”

  “I’ve paid my debt, Mr. Frost. I’m a free man.”

  Frost’s eyes bored into him. “To me, Tippett, you’re a cow thief, and you always will be.”

  He waited to see if Toby was going to say any more to that. Toby didn’t. Frost leaned forward on his saddle horn, his eyes like cold steel.

  “I wouldn’t advise you to stay here, Tippett. You’re not wanted any more. They tell me a man has been trying to buy this place from your dad. You better get him to sell, and both of you move on.”

  In stubborn anger Toby replied, “This is our home place. I was born here, and intend to stay. I made a mistake. I’ve taken my whipping and learned my lesson. I’d like to be friends with you if I can. But friends or not, I’m going to stay!”

  Hatred stood raw and deadly in Damon Frost’s square face.

  “No, you won�
��t,” he said in a quiet voice harsh as two rusty steel blades rubbing together. “I’ll see that you go, or I’ll see you dead.”

  He jerked his horse around and started him for the big corral gate. Just then old Sod Tippett came hobbling in from the barn.

  “Howdy there, Damon,” he said, beaming. “Been a long time since you were over here. My son’s home. Did you see him?”

  Damon Frost held up uncertainly, evidently not wanting to hurt the old man. They had been good friends a long time ago. “Yes, Sod,” he said, “I saw him.”

  To Toby, Frost warned darkly, “You tell your dad what I told you. I’m giving you a week to clear out. After that, you better watch yourself.”

  He spurred away then, sitting straight and proud in the saddle, his broad shoulders squared. Without a backward glance, Marvin Sand and the cowboy rode out a length behind him. Young Alton Frost held back a moment, looking at Toby. He winked, then spurred on to catch up with his father.

  Sod stared after them, not comprehending. “Damon wouldn’t even light and talk,” he murmured. “What’s the matter with him, son?”

  Toby’s mouth twisted in bitterness. “I’m what’s the matter with him. I didn’t expect he’d ever like me again. But to hate me like that…”

  The old man stood watching the riders trot their horses away on the trail that angled off across the flat toward the Frost ranch.

  “I heard him tell you to leave, son. You figuring on going? You fixing to leave me again?”

  Toby’s jaw set grimly. He put his arm around his father’s shoulder. “No, Dad. I’m not going to leave you.”

  Well past midafternoon, Alton Frost came back alone. He reined in at the front of the house and stepped down. Leisurely, he grinned up at Toby, who was on the roof, pulling out some bad shingles.

  “Better climb down from there cowboy, before you fall off and mess up the front yard.”

  Grinning broadly, Toby climbed down. He clasped Alton’s hand. “Say, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I had a hunch you’d be back.”

  Alton laughed. “Sure. Had to wait till I could get loose from Pa. He’s peculiar about some things, and you’re one of them.”