by Elmer Kelton
“You have one strange way of saying good morning, blacksmith.” Matson laughed, sitting on the edge of the bed in a new nightshirt. One of his silver-plated revolvers was pointed at Dane’s stomach.
Across the room, fresh clothes were neatly folded on a scratched oak dresser. A small closet was partially opened, revealing the rest of his travel wardrobe. A cast-iron bed dominated the room. A night table was crowded against it. Next to the closest wall an overstuffed green chair stood sentry, more fashionable than comfortable. In the remaining open space, there was a narrow table with two high-backed chairs, as well as a dresser and mirror. A red vase was centered on the table, filled with what once were flowers. Faded red curtains completed the decor.
As Dane’s eyes became comfortable with the blackened confinement, he could see a Bible, a two-thirds-empty bottle of Irish whiskey, and another pearl-handled pistol lying on the night table. What looked like a book of Tennyson poems was also there. And a half-folded letter.
“Suppose it was a mite showy,” Dane replied, forcing himself to grin, and letting the gun drop to his side.
Matson responded by laying his weapon on the bed. The gun-fighter didn’t look as big as Dane thought he would be. A little scrawny even. Lanky for sure. Matson’s face was drawn, his manner sleepy, but his piercing eyes looked like bright death, seeing right through the blacksmith’s thin coating of resolve. His blond hair was uncombed and unruly.
Without any sign of concern, Matson watched him curiously. The sleepy gunfighter picked up Dane’s message again and read it aloud: “‘Greystoke Matson. This is Marshal Jericho Dane. Outside. No one with me. Want to talk. No shooting. No arrest. You have my word.’”
Upon finishing, Matson motioned for Dane to sit down in the overstuffed chair a few feet from him. The lawman declined politely, saying he wouldn’t be long. Dane showed no signs of fear or tenseness. That surprised Matson. Most men were on edge around him and he liked that. It always made him feel superior.
“So they made you the town law again,” Matson snapped. “Blacksmith, instead of a tailor. What makes you qualified for the job? You good with that revolver?”
Dane looked down at the gun in his hand. “No one else wanted the job.”
Matson chuckled. “What made you think I wouldn’t start shooting when you came in the door, blacksmith? You don’t look stupid.” His eyes were bright now.
“Not sure. Just a feeling, I guess,” Dane replied. “But then if it had to be shooting, it might as well be here and now, instead of in the street. Good folks could get hurt there. I didn’t think you would play it that way. Didn’t think you were that stupid either.” He paused, grinned, and added, “Pretty hard to explain self-defense with a marshal in your room.”
“A man could die with that kinda thinking.”
“Yeah, he could. Or find a way to live.”
The remark silenced both men. Dane glanced at his own shotgun on the floor, then at Matson. The nearly empty room seemed smaller than when he first entered. The gunfighter lit a dirty lamp, letting wobbly shadows loose to watch them. Dane sensed Matson considered shooting. Just for an instant. A flicker in his brightened eyes. Dane had seen that look before. A shiver ran through him, causing his shoulder to lift to let the tremor go free into the night. He pushed against his stomach with his free left arm to give him some relief from the weight at his neck.
Matson’s inclination passed as quickly as it had come. A different one took over, a casual stare of genuine interest. Matson’s revolver lay on the bed with his hand resting on its gleaming white handle.
Dane spoke first. “Most of these folks in town are friends of mine. Like me, most fought for the Stars an’ Bars. Some were Federals, though. Long way from home, I am.” He shook his head. “No, that’s not right. Torsmill is home.”
“I was with Meade at Gettysburg. The first one,” Matson responded.
“That was a bloody mess. I was lucky. Wasn’t close by. Colonel Hay’s 7th Louisiana, part of Taylor’s brigade.”
Matson didn’t appear to be listening. “Yeah, but if Meade hadn’t been afraid, we would’ve ended the whole damn war right then and there.”
“There were a few Dixie generals we could’ve done better without, too,” Dane said, half smiling. He hadn’t expected the conversation to head this way.
“Well, that idiot Meade could have swept Missionary Ridge. Should have come blazing right after Pickett, and smashed you Rebs before you could rethink the thing. Only Meade, he was pure an’ simple afraid of Lee.” Matson hit the bed with his fist for emphasis. The impact lifted the unprotected revolver slightly off the mattress for a moment. His voice was steel rubbing against steel.
“Yeah, ol’ Marse Robert, he was . . . a real war chief, wasn’t he?” Dane answered. “Did you get hurt in that one?”
“Spent awhile in a hospital near the Potomac. But I rode with Sherman. At the end. Atlanta and all.” Matson’s eyebrows lifted triumphantly.
“Glad I didn’t see that either.”
“Don’t blame you, Dane. Don’t blame you at all,” Matson said, looking around the room as if searching for something. “Say, you didn’t think to bring along some hot coffee for this morning war of yours, did you?”
“Should’ve brought some fresh donuts, too,” Dane said and laughed. “Next time I’ll know better.”
Matson started to say something, then paused and chuckled. He spotted the bottle of Irish whiskey and leaned over to pick it up, his back turned toward Dane. Was that an accident or was he testing? Dane’s eyes shot to the pistol on the bed. It was there. But the gunfighter’s second gun was inches from the whiskey bottle, within easy reach. Dane didn’t move, silently telling his fingers that they shouldn’t either.
Jericho Dane thought to himself that anyone watching this conversation would have never guessed that here were two men who might be killing each other in moments. Taking a hearty swig, Matson held up the bottle toward Dane. The blacksmith accepted with his left hand, stepping toward him, and took a sip, then another. The dark fluid went down his throat like hot butter. He didn’t drink much, but the feeling was good. He handed the bottle back to the gunfighter, who swirled the remaining contents and took another long swallow.
“Don’t get me wrong, blacksmith—or should I call you marshal? I don’t usually start the day this way . . . or end it. Just seemed like a good idea right now,” Matson said, returning the bottle to its place on the table. “So . . . what’s on your mind this fine morning, Marshal Dane?”
Dane grunted softly in response to the question and declared, “I want you to leave Torsmill.”
“Right now? I haven’t had my breakfast. No coffee even. Your fault, remember?”
“There’s a stage today. Before noon. Supposed to be at ten. Tends to be a little later. So you’ve got plenty of time to eat first.”
“Where’s it headed?”
“Ah, goes through Waco first. That’s where you live, isn’t it?” Dane said, his voice sounding a little nervous to his brain. He wished it didn’t.
“What if I don’t?”
Dane looked away briefly, then turned back to face the gun-fighter. His eyes were probably giving away his sudden fear. Dane was reminded of a doctor he had met during the War. The man seemed in control of his words and thoughts all the time. Efficient. Cool. Able to assess a situation without becoming emotionally involved or letting feelings make the decision. Why couldn’t he be like that, especially now?
He was counting on his assessment of Greystoke Matson to be right. If he was wrong, they would end up killing each other right here.
It was Matson who broke the crawling emptiness of the room. “You want me to leave. You think I’m a threat to this . . . this hole of a town? What is the name? Torsmill.” He answered his own question, motioned with his left arm and continued, “You came here with a shotgun. You don’t like the idea of facing me, do you? Why did you change your mind? About the scattergun.”
“Who would want to f
ace you? Yeah, I was going to come in with that, but you might’ve started shooting.”
“I would have,” Matson said, nodding. “What about a man? Ever kill a man facing you with a gun?”
“Lots of soldiers have. Nothing I’m proud of, though. Doesn’t take much to pull a trigger.”
Matson grinned through clenched teeth. “You and me. Hey, People would be talking about that fight around here for a long time.” He cocked his head to the side. “You would be famous. Marshal Jericho Dane dies in gunfight with the great Greystoke Matson.”
For once, Dane didn’t respond with any grunts or sighs or trembles, not even to himself. It pleased him.
“Not my idea of making history,” Dane said as casually as he could muster. “We both could die—or be hurt awful bad. Of course, it might keep this town out of Rudolph Cross’s hands. He’s the reason you’re here. To kill some of us. Guess I’m willing to trade you an’ me for that. Don’t want to, but I will.”
“Your face looks like you’ve already run into trouble.”
“Yeah, some Cross men.”
“Heard that. Heard you did some good shooting,” Matson said, pursing his lips.
“Did what I had to do,” Dane said.
Matson motioned toward him. “Say, you’re welcome to shed that long coat. Warm in here. Or are you hiding another gun?”
“Naw, I’m not hiding a gun. Brought that along to give me something to toss.” Dane pointed at the shotgun on the floor. “A hideaway gun wouldn’t do me much good against you.”
The gunfighter chuckled, acknowledging the truth in his assessment. No one was as good with a handgun as he was. Or if there was someone, he sure wasn’t hanging around this hick town.
“So, let’s take a look at this situation, shall we?” Matson picked up the pistol from the bed and spun it nonchalantly in his right hand. “I have never run from a fight. Am I really worth dying for? You’re no match for me . . . not even with that scattergun. And you know it. You wouldn’t get that Smith & Wesson halfway up before I stopped you. Forever.”
“I didn’t figure you would run, Matson,” Dane said. “I’m not asking you to. Just decide on your own to leave. That isn’t running. That’s choosing.”
“Why should I?”
Dane answered evenly, “Maybe because I asked nice-like. Maybe because the deal you made with Cross doesn’t look as good now.”
Dane’s remark didn’t set well with the gunfighter and it showed in Matson’s tightened face. Rage was just behind the mask of indifference.
Moving his shoulders slightly to relieve the heavy pressure, Dane responded by telling Matson that his staying would only cause trouble. It would mean the deaths of others. Him, too. Stopping the problem now would be to everyone’s advantage. No one would know the two of them had even met. It would simply look like Matson had decided to move on. That’s what it would be, in reality. Matson could wire Cross later. Or leave him a note.
“What about that silly little clerk?” Matson’s eyes were slits that seemed to carry the question with their stare. He motioned with his revolver toward the far wall to indicate downstairs.
“I’ll tell him you and I were old friends. From the War. I’ll tell him not to say anything about our meeting, that you were just passing through. To see me. He won’t talk anyway. Too scared. Threw up coming and going.”
“I’ve never gone short on a contract.”
Dane grunted, in spite of himself. It came out as a rebuttal to the gunfighter’s claim. Inside him, there was a sensation that made him feel more alive than he had ever been.
“The next move is yours, not mine. But I am marshal here—and you can’t stay.” Dane could feel the sweat from his hand trickle onto the revolver it held.
Matson saw the marshal’s shotgun on the floor. He walked over, lifted it with his left hand, broke it open and examined it as a jeweler might inspect a ring. He laid the weapon back on the floor. His own gun rested at his side in his right fist.
“Nice gun,” the gunfighter observed, stepping toward Dane. “Smart idea. Unloading it before you sent it in here.”
Now Matson and Dane were only a few feet apart. Matson, in his nightshirt, standing close to his new acquaintance.
“That’s a lot to ask of a man, in one short meeting,” Matson said. “I don’t think Cross would like that much—my leaving now. He seems like a cold-blooded bastard, doesn’t he? Might make it harder to get my next job if he starts complaining.”
“Cross can’t say anything without serious risk of arrest for attempted murder,” Dane said. “He may be mean, but he isn’t thick between the ears.”
Without responding, the gunfighter walked away to the lone window in the room. With his left hand, he pulled aside the faded red curtain to view the street below. It was barely dawn, but three people were already on the street. A dog greeted them. In the distance, Matson could see riders coming. He knew who they were and spun the revolver easily in his right hand.
“You know, a fellow listening to this conversation, well, he just might think you were scared.” The gunfighter didn’t turn from the window as he reversed the direction of his spinning gun and continued twirling it, counterclockwise.
Dane thought that talking with this man was like petting a wildcat. One never knew when his hand was going to be bitten, regardless of how nice the animal seemed at any given moment.
“A knowin’ man should be scared,” Dane acknowledged. “You’re a man with a reputation. Of course, there are folks around here who’d be quick to tell you I’m not a knowin’ man.” He cocked his head to the side. “Who’d want to hammer on iron over a hot fire all day if he had his druthers?”
Matson laughed at the counterpoint and held the gun with both hands, still looking out the window. “You’ve got sand, Dane. Not many men would have done this. That other marshal—that tailor—was as yellow as they come. What you’re trying to do makes sense, but it takes sand. I could’ve killed you when you came through that door.”
“You could’ve tried.”
Turning toward Dane, Matson’s eyes brightened; his revolver pointed at the blacksmith’s stomach.
Dane didn’t move. Everything in him froze.
A noise in the hallway broke the tautness in the room. Sounds passed. Matson paused a moment longer to make certain the hallway was clear of noise. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that Dane might not be alone, in spite of what he had said. He stared at the marshal, then at the door. When he was satisfied the sounds were unrelated, he grinned and stepped back.
“The note there, from Rudolph Cross, is the contract, Dane.” The gunfighter motioned toward the bed table with his revolver. “I’m to be paid five hundred dollars for killing you. Another five hundred for killing that little rancher—what’s his name? Yeah, Edwards. And the same amount to get rid of your mayor—and that old judge. Plus travel expenses. That’s a lot of money.”
“You like Tennyson, I see,” came Dane’s unexpected reply. Beads of sweat broke out along his forehead.
“Don’t change the subject,” the gunfighter snapped.
“Wasn’t. Tennyson writes a lot about fighting and dying. And living. I like his writing. What I’ve seen of it, anyway.” Dane watched the gunfighter.
“You mean like . . .” Then said Earl Doorm: “Well, if he be not dead, why wail ye for him thus? Ye seem a child. And be he dead, I count you for a fool; your wailing will not quicken him . . .” He completed the recitation, tossed the revolver on his bed, and walked to his closet. He began looking through his hanging clothes, facing the closet.
“That’s real nice. What’s the name of that one?”
“‘Enid.’ It’s about knights,” Matson said. His hands moved to a hanging coat as he continued reciting, “‘Forgetful of his promise to the kind, forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, forgetful of the tilt and tournament, forgetful of his glory and his name, forgetful of his princedom and its cares, and this forgetfulness was hateful to her . . . ’” He
finished, but didn’t turn away from the closet.
“That’s pretty, Greystoke. Wish I could recite like that. All I know are some words to a couple of church songs from when I was a kid.” He rubbed the back of his neck and hunched his shoulders to relieve the fierce ache.
“You’re a real piece of work, blacksmith. You and I could have been good friends somewhere else. Are you superstitious?” Matson fiddled with something inside the hanging coat.
Dane thought for a second. “Well, sort of. I kinda like things in five.”
“Did you do anything in fives this morning?”
Dane didn’t have time to respond as the gunfighter spun around, his fist holding a pistol that had been hidden in the coat; its black nose blossomed with orange flame.
The first two bullets hit Dane’s stomach, slamming him against the wall; the third, right at his heart. The bullets tore through his coat, then startlingly richocheted from their intended targets.
Staggering, Dane fired. Three times. Matson screamed, more like a cougar than a human, and flew backward, crashing into the closet. A fourth bullet bit Dane’s left arm, hard enough to force the weapon from his hand, in spite of its tenacious grip. A fifth hit the wall behind him.
Three black holes appeared heart-high on Matson’s nightshirt. His shaking hands pulled at clothes as he fell. Blood spotted everything close. The smoking pistol floated into the air like a strange bird before hitting the floor.
Dane leaned against the wall for support. He didn’t move. His head rested on his heaving chest. His shoulders ached from the weight they carried. He unbuttoned his long coat with black holes in three places and let it drop. Under it was a protective vest forged from two oversized, heavy shovels and a sheet of iron. He had made it last night at his shop. The makeshift bulletproof vest hung about his neck by a reinforced leather strap.
The blacksmith’s fingers ran over the three deep indentations made by Matson’s bullets. His gaze took in the dents made by his test firing last night. With a groan, Dane lifted the iron vest from his shoulders, using mostly his good arm, and let it clank on the floor. His stomach and chest throbbed where the lead had tried to strike. His left forearm pounded. But the liberation was considerable, letting energy and relief flow through him.
