Wild West

by Elmer Kelton

  The first rush of grief passed, and in its place grew a burning anger. Toby sat motionless while the doctor bound his ribs. But his fists were clenched, and his lips were drawn flat and hard. With his returning strength came determination.

  Betty Duncan laid her hand on his arm. “Lie down and try to get some rest, Toby. Dad has taken a bunch of men out to the Frost ranch. If Marvin tried to go back there, they’ll get him.”

  Toby shook his head. “I’m not going to rest, Betty, till I’ve gotten Marvin Sand.”

  A nagging worry kept working at him. What if Marvin didn’t go back to the Frost ranch? He had seen his plan blow up in his face. Chances were good that he would not dare return to the ranch. Where would he go?

  And suddenly Toby thought he knew. Marvin and Alton had been taking their stolen cattle to somebody down south who was selling the beef to railroad construction workers. The three of them were splitting the profits, Alton had said.

  What if there were still some unsplit profits down there? Toby knew Sand’s greed. He knew Sand wasn’t the kind to go off and leave any money behind him.

  The idea became a certainty with Toby. Half an hour later he was on a horse and heading south …

  He found the railroad. There was still a shiny newness to the rails. Although the ties already were beginning to show dark stains from coal and dirt-laden steam, they were fresh and new, the ends not scored or cracked. Toby headed west, following the tracks toward a drifting trace of coal smoke far ahead.

  Up near the end of track he found the settlement. There had been a little trading post and post office down here for years. They called it Faraway, because the man who first established it moved off in disgust, declaring that it was too far away from civilization ever to amount to anything.

  Faraway now was a booming little construction town. Later on, it probably would die again. But right now it was living high. Tents, slapped-together shacks, and wheel-mounted business houses set off on side tracks had all but swallowed up the original old trading post. There were lots of men here. A good market for beef, Toby mused, watering his horse in a wooden trough and taking a wide, sweeping look.

  A saloon would be the best place to pick up information. He sought out the crudest, meanest-looking one of the lot.

  It was about as bad inside as it was outside. The saloon was really a big patched tent, the sides walled up with old warped boards which still had some loose nails sticking out of them. The bar was two more such boards nailed down across four empty kegs. And behind the bar slouched a bartender who likely hadn’t had a bath since the last time he got caught out in the rain.

  Toby ordered a drink and sat down at a crude scrap-lumber table with it. Nervousness prickled him. He didn’t want to seem eager, but he didn’t have any time to waste.

  After a while he sidled back up to the bar.

  “Say,” he asked quietly, “where could a man sell some fat cattle around here? Who’s the butcher for this outfit?”

  The bartender scratched his chin under a mat of whiskers which could not properly be called a beard, even though they were long enough.

  “Well, there’s an outfit owned by John Pines that has a contract with the railroad. Then, there’s a couple of old boys that do butchering to sell beef around the camp.”

  Toby looked back over his shoulder as if making sure nobody was listening.

  “I need to find me a butcher who can keep his mouth shut.”

  The bartender’s eyes lighted. “Stolen cattle?”

  “Now,” Toby drawled, “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Just say there’s a little room for argument about them, and I don’t especially enjoy arguments.”

  The bartender grinned and poured Toby another drink. “The man for you to see is Bud Spiller. He won’t pay as much as the others, but he can’t tell one brand from another. And he don’t watch over his shoulder as you leave.”

  Bud Spiller’s camp was south of the railroad, out in the brush, according to the bartender’s directions. Spiller had some holding pens down there, and some Mexican workers to skin and dress the beef. He hauled it to the construction camp in a tarp-covered wagon.

  The wind was out of the south, and Spiller’s place wasn’t hard to find. First thing Toby located was a Mexican dragging offal and cattle’s heads away on a mule-drawn sled. At a rotting, stinking dump ground the man stopped, tipped the sled over, and headed back toward camp in a long trot, getting away from the foul stench.

  At sight of Toby riding up to camp, a Mexican shouted something. A man stepped out of a big shack and strode forward. This, Toby guessed, was Bud Spiller. Spiller was a medium-tall, soft-bellied man with a stubble beard. His hairy arms were bloody most of the way to his rolled-up sleeves. Dried blood speckled his dirty clothing. He scowled darkly at Toby.

  “What do you want here?”

  “You Bud Spiller?”

  The man nodded. “And I got lots to do. If you got business, get it over with.”

  Toby took his time, getting a good look at the camp. “I got some cattle to sell,” he said. “I heard you might be the man to buy them.”

  Spiller grunted. “I ain’t interested.” He turned away. He took a couple of steps, then turned around again. “I might be, if they was cheap enough.”

  “I’d make them cheap enough,” Toby said, “if I knew you’d keep your mouth shut about where they came from.”

  Spiller’s eyes widened a little. “They stolen?”

  Toby rubbed his chin. “Well … I come by them awful easy.”

  He thought he saw a face behind a window in the shack. But as he squinted for a better look, the face disappeared. His heartbeat quickened.

  Spiller’s whiskered face frowned darkly. “Where’d you get the idea that I’d buy stolen cattle?”

  Toby hesitated, then decided to throw in the whole stack of chips. “Friend of mine told me. Man named Marvin Sand.”

  In one unguarded moment the name brought a quick leap of surprise into Spiller’s muddy eyes, and his mouth dropped open a little. He glanced quickly back over his shoulder, toward the shack. Then, as if realizing this had been a trap, he gripped himself. His face tightened.

  “Get out of here,” he snarled.

  Toby’s gun leaped into his hand. He swung to the ground, keeping the gun muzzle on Spiller. “I’ve got a hunch he’s in that shack yonder,” he said. “You’re going to go in front of me. If he makes a wrong move, I’ll kill you.”

  Spiller’s jaw was bobbing. His throat swelled as he tried to force the words out. But fear choked them off. He turned woodenly and started toward the shack.

  The Mexicans had all stopped work and were watching. Toby didn’t think they would try to interfere with him. They were hired laborers, probably being paid just enough to eat. Chances were they wouldn’t risk injury by interfering.

  “Come on out, Marvin,” Toby shouted. “Don’t try anything, or I’ll shoot Spiller.”

  There was no answer from inside. Toby repeated his order, and still he heard nothing. A doubt began to work at him. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Marvin wasn’t here at all. But he had to be.

  Toby heard a sharp whirr, and he jerked around too late to dodge the hatchet flying at him. The flat edge struck the brim of his hat and flattened it against Toby’s head. He saw a blinding flash of light, then dropped limply to the ground.

  In a dreamy, half-real world, he sensed the tread of boots in the sand. He forced his eyes open enough to see the boots halted in front of him, swaying back and forth, back and forth. A voice broke through the fog.

  “You’ve killed him.” Fright lifted Bud Spiller’s voice to a high pitch. “You’ll get me hung, Marvin.”

  Even in half consciousness, Toby knew the other voice.

  “He’s not dead. But we better kill him. He’ll talk, and you’ll do a stretch where he just come from,” Marvin Sand said.

  “No,” Spiller said, his voice wavering, “we’re not going to kill him. I can stand a stretch for butchering s
tolen cattle, but I don’t want to hang.”

  Sand shrugged. “Have it your own way. But I’m leaving. Give me my money. I’m getting out of the country.”

  They walked into the shack. His head clearing, Toby tried to push himself up onto his hands and knees. He could hear the voices inside the shack.

  “Here’s for that last bunch you and Alton brought me. I reckon you get his share now,” Spiller said.

  There was a brief silence, then a chuckle. “That’s a right smart of money you got there, Bud. Ain’t you afraid to keep that much on you?”

  “There’s no better place that I know of. I couldn’t leave it lying around this camp. I sure wouldn’t take it to Faraway. Too many crooks around there. Best thing is to keep it on me. I always got a gun to … Marvin, don’t point that thing at me.”

  Sand chuckled again. “I won’t hurt you, Bud, not if you don’t give me any trouble. Just hand over that money.”

  Spiller’s voice was shrill with outrage. “It’s mine, Marvin! My share of what we made together. We split the profits even, you and me and Alton.”

  Toby heard a sharp cry, then a clubbing sound like a butcher axing a steer.

  A moment later Marvin Sand strode out of the shack, his pockets bulging. He stopped beside Toby. Toby’s heart hammered in helplessness. He knew Sand was considering whether or not to shoot him.

  Then Sand turned away. He walked out to a small shed and reappeared astride a horse. He touched spurs to the animal and swung northward in an easy lope.

  Toby pushed himself up and swayed toward a bucket he saw on a bench by the shack. The bucket was half full of water, and he splashed some of it on his face, soaked a handkerchief in it, and held it to his swollen forehead, where the flat side of the hatchet had struck.

  The cool water cleared his head. He went back to where he had fallen and picked up his gun. He heard a scraping sound at the door of the shack. Bud Spiller was dragging himself out. Blood trickled down his face from a ragged wound.

  “Where was he going, Spiller?” Toby demanded.

  Spiller sagged, bracing himself against the door. Despair was stamped in the heavy lines of his face. “Train. Going to catch the evening construction train east. Go get him, friend. He’s all yours.”

  Toby lifted himself stiffly into his saddle and spurred out, heading north after Marvin Sand. For a moment or two he thought he might fall, but he gripped the horn, and soon there was little weakness left. From the north he heard the whistle of a train.

  He broke out onto a hilltop that gave him a long look down toward Faraway. And yonder, just starting to pull away, was the eastbound construction train. A cold certainty gripped Toby. Marvin Sand was on that train.

  Toby slanted his horse a little eastward. It took a while for the train to begin working up speed. A mile east of town the road made a bend around a rocky hill that had been too mean to blast out. The train would travel slowly until it passed the bend, Toby thought. Counting on that, he headed for the bend.

  He hauled up at the bend, moments ahead of the train. He held his winded horse alongside the track and waved his hat frantically.

  The frightful racket of the engine bearing down upon them threw the horse into a frenzy. He fought back away from the tracks. In desperation, Toby kept on waving his hat. But as the train passed, the grinning engineer waved back. Some cowboy seeing his first train, he probably thought.

  Still yelling, Toby touched spurs to the horse and broke into a long-stretching lope alongside the train. The cars were rapidly pulling away from him. He crowded in, trying to grab hold of something and pull himself up onto the train.

  The cars were passing him, one and then another, and then a third. It was a short train, and there weren’t many more left. Toby kept spurring hard, the rough ground flying by beneath him. One misstep could throw him under the wheels.

  He caught a flashing glimpse of a face as an empty flat car went by. Marvin Sand.

  The grade flattened out, and the train was picking up speed. Yelling at his horse, fighting at the reins, Toby crowded him in once more. He grabbed at an iron bar. It jerked out of his hands. He grabbed at another. This time he got a good hold. He kicked his feet free and let the train pull him away from the saddle.

  His body slammed hard against the side of the car, and for an agonizing moment he thought he would fall. He glimpsed the railroad ties whisking by beneath. He held onto the bar, and found a foothold.

  He pulled himself up onto the swaying car and looked behind him. Way back yonder his horse was still running, pulling away from the train. Another moment and he would have lost the race.

  Toby drew his gun and started moving forward, crouched low. Marvin Sand must have been watching him, hoping he would fall. Now, he would be waiting.

  A bullet tugged at his sleeve, and the sharp blast of a gunshot burst almost in his face. Without time to aim, Toby squeezed off a hasty shot at the hat which was ducking beneath the top of the next car. Splinters flew. Toby rushed forward.

  Another bullet reached for him from beneath the roof of the car. Marvin was between two cars, holding onto a ladder and shifting positions for each shot. Toby sent a second bullet at the edge of the car and kept pushing forward. He jumped the space between the two rumbling cars, and then he was on the car behind which Marvin was waiting. Sand bobbed up. He fired rapidly, one shot, two, three. Toby sprawled flat, the bullets singing over him.

  Sand stopped shooting then, and Toby knew why—his gun was empty. Toby lurched onto his feet and ran ahead, toward the end of the moving car. Sand was fumbling with his gun, trying to reload it. At the sight of Toby rushing toward him, he hurled the gun.

  Toby ducked it. Sand climbed up onto the car and came rushing to meet him. He grabbed at Toby’s gun.

  Toby was aware that the train was slowing down. Aroused by the crash of gunfire, the engineer was putting on the brakes. Up ahead, just behind the engine, someone climbed onto a car and was coming on the run. He had a shotgun in his hands.

  Toby’s feet slipped, and he fell backward. Marvin crashed down on top of him. Marvin’s knee drove into Toby’s bound ribs. Toby cried out in pain. His hand involuntarily relaxed, and Marvin wrenched the gun from his fingers. Sand jumped back onto his feet. He brought the gun down into line, his face twisted in hatred.

  Then the brakes grabbed hold. The car lurched suddenly and Sand’s feet slipped. He struggled for footing, then he plunged backward between the two cars. His wild scream cut off short.

  Ribs aching, Toby was down off the side of the car the moment the train stopped. He trotted back down the tracks toward the twisted form he could see lying there.

  He stopped short, his eyes widening. His face drained white, and he turned back.

  Two smoke-blackened train men came hurrying. One of them held the shotgun on Toby, but he paid little attention to it.

  “What’s this all about, boy?” one of the men demanded.

  Toby motioned toward the body. “He killed a man over in Patman’s Lake yesterday. I was trying to take him back.”

  The trainman lowered the gun. “Well,” he commented, “there ain’t hardly enough left now to take back.”

  Despair bore down like a leaden weight in Toby as he rode northward to Patman’s Lake. Ahead of him was the grim task of burying his father.

  Toby’s consuming anger had burned itself out after the fight on the train. No longer was there any hatred in him. But the grief remained, and he had the whole trip in which to think about it. There was so much he had wanted to do for old Sod Tippett, so many wrongs to make up for.

  Something else was eating at Toby as he rode back across seventy far-stretching miles of cow country. A cloud of suspicion would always hang over him now. Marvin Sand could have cleared him, but Sand was dead. So was Alton Frost. As for Bud Spiller, the man had cleared out, just as Toby had figured he would. Toby had ridden back to Spiller’s slaughtering camp and taken Faraway’s marshal with him, but Spiller was gone. The country was big, a
nd Spiller had his start.

  Toby never even went by the ranch. He rode on into Patman’s Lake. His shoulders sagged, and his body ached all over. He paid scant attention to the men who watched him from a dozen porches and doorways. Stiffly he swung down at the courthouse square and walked to the big, open doors.

  Betty Duncan was waiting for him. Her wide eyes shone as she rushed forward to meet him. He folded her in his arms, pressing his cheek to her soft hair while she buried her face against his chest.

  Later Cass Duncan shook Toby’s hand with a genuine pleasure. “We got the news from Faraway by telegraph,” he said. “Sure glad you weren’t hurt.”

  Toby nodded, murmuring his thanks.

  “I didn’t want Marvin to die, Cass,” Toby said. “I wanted to bring him back to clear me. Now there’s no way to do it. As long as I live, people will be wondering if I was with Marvin and Alton.”

  Betty shook her head. “No, they won’t Toby. They know the truth.”

  Toby stared at her. For the first time he noticed the thin blue color that ringed one of her eyes, and the red-tinged, angry-looking mark that reached down her cheek.

  “I had a hunch Ellen Frost could tell the whole story if she wanted to,” Betty said. “So I went out there. We had a long talk. When we got through, she told everything, Toby. She cleared you.”

  Relief washed over Toby. Gratefully he squeezed the girl’s hands. “How about Ellen?” he asked, smiling. “Does she look as bad as you do?”

  Betty smiled back. “Worse.”

  “And Damon Frost?” Toby asked. “How’s he taking this?”

  Cass frowned. “Pretty hard. I think he knew all the time that Alton had outlawed on him. And Ellen had gone wild, too. Damon wanted to blame somebody for it, and so he blamed you. He never guessed about Marvin Sand. He took out all his vinegar on you, Toby. He tried to get you the stiffest sentence he could, hoping that what happened to you would be a lesson to Alton. He thought it had. But when you came back, he was afraid it would start all over again. He didn’t know it already had.

  “That’s why he hated you so much, son. He wanted to blame somebody for ruining his son and his daughter. But I think he knows that it was really nobody’s fault but his own.”