by Elmer Kelton
Cross actually smiled, then turned in the saddle. “Lecaunesse, you an’ Hogan get the wagon an’ get what we need from the store. Tell the livery I’ll pay later.”
“No. You’ll pay now,” Dane demanded.
“One of these days, smithy, you’re gonna get yours,” Cross snarled, and reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small sack of coins. Tossing it toward the derby-hatted cowboy called Hogan, the big rancher bellowed, “Give your guns to the storekeeper.” He frowned at the two selected men. “Do you know what I want from the store?”
“Oui,” Lecaunesse responded.
“Aye,” Hogan agreed.
In spite of their positive responses, Cross rattled off the supplies needed and told them to leave one of their horses for the jailed Walker at the livery. To punctuate his orders, he yanked his reins hard to the left and spurred his horse into a gallop. The other riders followed, with Big Juan riding beside Stockton to make certain he stayed in the saddle.
Dane watched them leave town, noticing Xavier Anthony had left the small crowd across the street. He returned to his work, grabbing the bellows to give the fire on his forge renewed attention. He worked it five times.
Mary Tressian looked up from helping customers as the two Cross riders came into her store. They had secured the wagon and lashed the reins to the hitching rack. Tied to the wagon’s back end were their two saddle horses. She was trying her best not to appear nervous. She had seen Cross, his nephew and their men ride into town and knew why they had come. She had heard the egotistical Anthony tell Stockton of the arrest while they ate last night.
Her feelings for the rugged blacksmith were confusing her. Sheriff Stockton was a man many women would be thrilled to have his attention. But she had little interest in him, in spite of his persistence. Their eating together was something she felt pressured into.
Why was she drawn to the quiet Jericho Dane? Why didn’t he show any signs that he was interested in her?
A townsman in a too-tight suit entered a few steps behind the Cross cowboys. In a loud voice, he announced, “Marshal Dane backed down Cross and his men. They left town.” He paused and added dramatically, “Marshal Dane beat up Sheriff Stockton. In a fair fight. They left that arrested cowboy in the saloon where he’s fixing up the bullet holes.”
The cowboy named Hogan turned around, his hand resting on the counter displaying rows of branded medicines. “Be careful o’ ye words, mister. Rudolph Cross be comin’ back and all o’ ye will rue this day.”
The businessman’s face whitened and he stuttered sort of an apology. “I-I w-was only sharing w-what happened. I-I w-wasn’t taking s-sides.”
Hogan nodded and nudged Lecaunesse with his elbow.
A stray beam of light from the front window accented the collection of patented medicines, along with several kinds of croup syrups and salves for babies, a half dozen bottles of variously labeled female remedies, worm destroyers and stomach bitters, plus containers of Epsom salts, cod liver oil, paregoric, camphor and snake root. The light also caught the handle of the belt guns of the two riders.
“May I help you gentlemen?” Mary’s voice refound most of its lilt. She put her hands on her hips. “Torsmill is a quiet town, sirs. A good town. But we don’t take well to threats.” She folded her arms. “If you want to shop in here, you must first remove your guns.”
The customers at the counter quickly moved away, leaving her alone. She glanced at the long-barreled Colt under the counter and wished Dane were here. She almost smiled at the thought. His presence was the first thing she had thought about.
Shifting his weight toward Hogan, Lecaunesse whispered something to the Irish hand. Hogan nodded agreement and said, “Be meanin’ no harm to ye, ma’am. We just be here for supplies.” He held up the sack of coins. “Payin’ cash money we be.”
“Pardon, here are our guns, mademoiselle,” Lecaunesse volunteered, stepping forward with his revolver in his hand, grip held forward.
Hogan watched him for an instant, realized what he was doing, and said, “Oh yes’m. Here be me gun.” He yanked free the revolver and followed the Frenchman to the counter.
Both laid their guns on the counter and Lecaunesse picked up one of the shopping baskets.
“Thank you,” she said, unfolding her arms. “Do you need any help?”
“Merci bien.” Lecaunesse pushed back his hat. “We will need such. Not used to this.” He smiled a jack-o’-lantern smile showing two missing teeth. “No offense, mademoiselle. But it sure is easy to see why Stockton is sweet on vous.”
She blushed from annoyance and wished she hadn’t. “I’ll be with you as soon as I finish helping the Bannons.”
A heavyset farmer standing close to the wall waved his arm dismissively “You go ahead an’ help them, Miss Tressian. We ain’t in no hurry. No hurry a’tall.”
Across the street, J. R. Reicker slipped into the blacksmith shop where Dane was soaking his hands in the water trough.
“Looks like you did a real number of that stuck-up nephew o’ Cross’s,” Reicker said, studying the young blacksmith with newfound interest. “He must’ve outweighed ya by twenty, thirty pounds.”
“Yeah, I reckon he did.” Dane pulled his cut hands from the cooling liquid and looked for a towel, then remembered it had been used to wipe up Stockton’s vomit. He wiped them on his apron, then his pants.
“This ain’t the end o’ it, Marshal.” Reicker shook his head.
“Probably not, J. R. Probably not,” Dane said. “Would you like some coffee? Fresh this morning.”
“No thanks, about time fer me to check in with the mayor.” The white-haired man left.
V
Dane poured himself a cup of coffee, muttered to himself and began singing. “Rock of Ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in Thee, Let the water and the blood . . . from thy wound side which flowed. Be of sin the double cure. Save from wrath and make me pure.” That’s all the words he remembered. Ever. Then he started over. He looked up to see Trash Tess staring at him. He hadn’t heard her come in. He waved the cup at her and she nodded.
He walked over, wondering if she had eaten anything this morning. Her long hair was wilder than usual, like she had just come in from a nasty wind. Her dress was the same one as yesterday—light blue gingham. Down its front was something that looked like manure. It definitely wasn’t dirt. A fly seemed interested.
“Have you eaten breakfast, Tess?” he asked, handing her the cup.
She grabbed it and drank of it deeply, then handed it back to him. It was nearly empty. “Yes, I have breakfast.”
“Well, when you’re hungry, your noon dinner’s been paid for. By Mr. Mikman,” he said. “All of your meals have. At Carter’s place. You understand? Lots of people like you, Tess.”
She stared at him for a moment, then grabbed the cup. He thought she said something that sounded like she was grateful. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a crumpled, brown photograph and held it out for him to examine. He had seen it several times before. His guess was it was of her parents on their wedding day. No one knew who they might be—or had been, or where they had come from, or where they were going when she was left behind. Seeing it always made him sad.
“That’s very nice, Tess. They are quite good-looking people. Your mother looks like you, I think,” Dane said and held up the coffee cup. “I will keep this cup right here,” he said, walking toward the retaining wall. “It is yours. Whenever you want some coffee, you come here. All right?” He tossed out the remains and placed the cup on an upright nail.
He turned around. She was gone.
Dane started to resume work, then decided he would check on the two Cross riders and make certain they weren’t causing a problem. That wasn’t the reason, of course. He wanted to see Mary; he had made up his mind to ask her out. If she declined, at least he knew.
Splashing water on his face and running his fingers through his hair, Dane took off his apron and put on his shirt and long coat wit
h the badge. He buttoned the coat and adjusted his hat to give him further confidence, then left the shop. He told himself the other reason for going was that he needed to buy another coffee mug.
Hogan and Lecaunesse were loading the wagon as he approached.
“‘Morning, gentlemen,” he said without pausing.
“Bonjour,” Lecaunesse said, looking up from depositing a sack of flour in the wagon bed.
“Aye, top o’ the morning to ye,” Hogan said and grinned.
Mary met him at the doorway with a big smile. “It’s good to see you, Marshal Dane.”
Touching the brim of his hat, Dane replied, “It’s good to see you, Miss Tressian. I, ah, came to see if the two Cross riders were behaving themselves.”
“Oh, I hoped you came to see me.” Her eyes blinked mischievously.
He swallowed, uncertain of how to respond, and finally blurted, “Yes, ma’am.”
“My name is Mary.”
His face was a smile. “I know that . . . Mary.”
Stepping aside to allow him to enter, she said, “The two Cross men have been very polite. They are nearly finished, I think.” She studied him. “Jericho, you must not stand in the way of Rudolph Cross. He is an evil man. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”
“And his nephew? What does he want?” Dane was surprised at his own response.
Mary frowned. “Jericho Dane, if you mean what I think you mean, you should be ashamed.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Just what does a girl have to do to get you to pay attention to her?”
Dane looked at his worn boots for a moment, then looked into her eyes. “Mary, I think you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. But I can’t compete with all that Cross and Stockton have.”
Her voice softened. “You silly man. Do you think I care about that? I am interested in you, Jericho Dane. You.”
He glanced in the direction of the two Cross riders and found the courage to say what was churning in his mind. “Would you like to go for a ride? Maybe a picnic?”
“A picnic? I would love to. When?”
Swallowing his nervousness, he said, “How about this afternoon?”
She beamed. “Yes. My clerk can handle the store.”
“I’ll come for you about four. All right?”
“I’ll be waiting.” She took his hand and brought it toward her. “Your hands are cut and sore. From the fight?”
“Yeah, guess so.” His eyes couldn’t leave her face.
“Let me get you some ointment. It’ll help.” Without waiting for his reaction, she hurried to the medicine section.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I need to buy a coffee mug.”
VI
Dane and Mary chatted easily as his rented buggy moved across the sweet prairie. He had selected a gentle stream as their picnic location. Ambling water had escaped from Kill Pond long ago, back when the buffalo nation ruled the land.
The string of natural irrigation had worked hard, bringing to life a matching strip of elderberry, live oak, willow, juniper, wild potato and two dominant cottonwood trees along its banks. The stream meandered for a quarter mile, then disappeared underground, but evidence of its presence could be found in a magnificent strand of gramma grass claimed so far by one of the small ranches. So far he had held it. On the north side of the squatty hill that protected the stream was the main pond itself.
Dane couldn’t remember being so happy. Mary was wearing a different dress, one with puffed sleeves and a high lacy collar. Her hair was no longer in a bun, but hung loosely with a wide-brimmed straw hat covering the top of her head. He was wearing the best clothes he owned, a dark-blue, pin-striped suit used for his occasional churchgoing. His only suit.
Her smile reminded Dane of a beautiful sunrise. He told her so, surprised at his boldness. She reached over and held his hand resting on the buggy seat. Time passed so fast, they were nearing the pond before either realized it. Only a young deer was drinking at the pond when they crested the hill and it darted away as soon as they headed toward the water. Mary pointed at the swift-running animal, talking about its wonderful freedom.
This was Dane’s favorite spot, a refuge from work and worry. He had discovered it upon returning from his visit with the ranchers.
“Oh, how beautiful! I had forgotten how lovely it is,” Mary exclaimed as they pulled up alongside the stream. “I used to come here with Dad. He loved this quiet place.”
Dane smiled. “Wish I had known him. He sounds like a good man.” He jumped down from the buggy and turned to help her.
She melted into his arms. Their lips met and for a wonderful moment everything else disappeared.
Looking into his eyes, Mary said softly “I’ve been waiting for this. For you.”
“Mary I can’t remember being so happy” he said and touched her face, then ran his finger lightly across her lips.
She kissed them as they passed and they kissed again.
A thunder of hoof beats broke into their reverie.
“Better get back into the buggy, Mary, until we know who this is.”
“Sure.”
He helped her into the buggy and headed around the harnessed chestnut horse as seven armed riders cleared the hill behind them. Dane couldn’t make out their faces, but guessed they were Cross riders. His hand slipped into his coat pocket and was reassured by the cold steel of his revolver.
As they advanced, he heard one say, “It’s that damn blacksmith,” followed by, “He’s with Stockton’s girl.”
It was Cross riders. Some from this morning. He recognized the heavy Mexican, then Lecaunesse and Hogan.
“Whatever happens, stay in the buggy, Mary. They won’t hurt you.” He stepped away from the buggy to meet their advance. His hand moved toward his pocket, then away. To draw a gun now would bring their own weapons into play There were too many and he had Mary to be concerned about.
“Maybe they’re just passing through,” Mary said without much conviction.
“Maybe,” he answered.
The pockmark-faced foreman leading the Cross band reined his winded horse a few feet from Dane. Winslow Tatum grinned wickedly and pushed back the short-brimmed fedora from his forehead. A shoulder holster, worn over his shirt, held a walnut-handled Colt. His potato-shaped face bristled with uneven whiskers trying to form a beard.
The blacksmith didn’t move. The six other riders fanned out around Dane and the buggy, creating a half circle.
“Well, well, ain’t this a purty sight,” Tatum growled. “The blacksmith tryin’ to cut in on Stockton’s girl. Think ya had a right after this mornin?”
“I am not Stockton’s girl,” Mary blurted. “Go away and leave us alone.”
The Cross foreman folded his gloved hands over his saddlehorn.
“Cain’t do that, missy. You’re on Cross land—an’ we don’t take to trespassers.”
“This is open land and you know it,” Dane responded. “Leave.”
He wasn’t expecting what happened next. Two ropes sailed at him. He slapped them away. A third loop caught him, settled instantly around his waist, pinning his arms to his body. The toss came from the grizzled rider on the far side of the buggy, over the back of Dane’s right shoulder. An eyeblink behind it came another loop from the opposite direction. The two ropes held him, unable to move or raise his arms.
A third successful loop found his neck and tightened around it. The hemp rubbed hard against his skin, making it difficult to breathe.
“Now, what do you have to say, blacksmith?” Tatum swung down from his horse, tugging on his gloves and the wide leather cuffs, and handing the reins to the mounted Big Juan. Batwing chaps and worn spurs made brisk music with each step toward Dane. “The boss is gonna be real happy to hear about this.”
Dane struggled to free himself, but couldn’t. The rope at his neck was making him light-headed and there was nothing he could do about it. He tried to reach the gun in his coat pocket, but he couldn’t lift his right hand, trapped a
gainst his side.
“Stop it! Let him go!” Mary screamed. “I . . . love him.”
“Sure, honey.” Tatum walked over, pulling again on his gloves, and opening and closing his fists. “Not too tight, Hogan. I want the sonuvabitch to feel this.”
“Aye, boss. Lettin’ him breathe a bit, I’ll be doin’.”
The rope at Dane’s neck loosened slightly and he was thankful. As he inhaled, Tatum unleashed a vicious blow at Dane’s face. Dane’s reflexes were good enough to turn his head and Tatum’s fist caught the side of the blacksmith’s face, making his teeth crunch together.
As Tatum moved to deliver another blow, the blacksmith kicked him in the groin and Tatum bent over in fierce pain.
“You yellow bastard, give me a chance. I’ll take all of you . . .” Dane’s words were cut off as the lariat tightened at his neck.
“That be enough, smithy,” Hogan yelled.
Straightening himself, Tatum took a deep breath. “You’re gonna rue that.”
Keeping his body away from Dane’s feet, Tatum slammed his fist into Dane’s face and followed it with a blow to his stomach. A second blow to Dane’s face cut into his cheek and split his lip. Dane grimaced and spit blood into Tatum’s face. A third smashed into his face again.
Stepping back, Tatum shook his right fist. “Damn, that hurts.”
“Señor Tatum, let me have a turn.” Big Juan flashed a wide, toothy grin.
“Aye, me be wantin’ a turn also,” Hogan shouted, grinned and yanked on his rope around Dane’s neck for good measure.
At the buggy, Mary grabbed the whip from its stand, jumped down and ran at Tatum, swinging it at him. The whip snapped his face and caught Tatum’s cheek, drawing blood.
All of the riders were drawn to mary’s attack. Lecaunesse yelled something in French and Hogan forgot his rope as he leaned forward to add encouragement to Tatum. The youngest rider, a buck-toothed lad not yet eighteen, yelled for Tatum to rip off her dress. With the riders distracted, Dane forced his left hand under the two ropes at his waist enough to push them slightly away from his body with every bit of his strength. Then he edged the ropes upward so that his right hand was free just above the elbow. His right hand reached into his pocket and he grabbed the pistol. He fought the blackness that wanted him.
