Short Stories & Tall Tales
Toby
Tom Roberts
Toby watched. Despite the cold and the rain Toby watched and waited for the man to emerge from the door across the muddy street.
The raucous sounds of the saloon carried into the dusky air. The tinny trilling of the piano, the chinking of glasses, and the mixture of male and female voices from within coated the coming night with a false sense of merriment not otherwise to be found on the street. The lead-colored sky and chilly drizzle had blanketed the Montana Hi-Line town for nearly a week leaving depression in its wake.
Time passed. The saloon grew quieter. And still Toby watched and waited, wondering what could be taking the man so long. He nestled deeper in the darkened doorway and continued the vigil. Soon the man would come. Soon.
The sound of approaching feet attracted Toby’s attention. But walking with his hands thrust into his coat pockets, chin down and his collar turned up against the drizzle, the passer-by paid no attention to Toby.
A nearby horse nickered and nervously pawed with a front hoof at the soggy, sloppy earth. It too felt the cold. Left tied to a hitching post by the man now in the saloon, its saddle and blanket were soaked through and it longed for the comfort of a dry barn and hay. Ears laid back, the dun lowered its head and violently shook the rain from its mane and neck.
And still Toby waited.
The purple shadows of dusk deepened and the amber glow of oil lamps began to appear behind windows fronting the street.
A figure emerged from the saloon, the door swinging noisily behind him.
The one who watched jerked his head up, narrowing his yellow eyes, and went to stand to his full height, straightening his stiff legs and studying the figure. Was it him? The dusky shadows made it too dark to tell.
The figure strode down the boardwalk to the end of the saloon, the heels of his boots echoing hollowly upon the puncheons, and paused to reach up above his head. He took a hanging kerosene lantern down off a hook, lit it, turned up the wick and hoisted it back up to its spot on the post. A spectral halo ringed the lamp’s white glow through the rain and mist. The figure proceeded to another post and lit a second lantern; and then another, repeated the process until the front of the saloon shown brightly into the night.
The one watching recognized it was not the man he was waiting on and settled back into the recesses of the doorway.
* * * * *
Chapman had come to the saloon to get drunk and had accomplished that quite well. After several hours of bending an elbow he reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke. The two old timers to his right had been repetitiously reliving the glory of some former cattle drive for longer than it took to actually drive the beeves to slaughter.
“Why don't you stop, Mr. Chapman?” the barkeep asked, pity reflecting in his grey eyes as he threw a towel over his shoulder. “You don’t need to drink any more today.”
With a smile Chapman replied, “Maybe you’re right, Joe,” and drained his glass. No reason to leave good whiskey behind.
With a shuffling step he turned from the bar and took several strides between the tables toward the door, steadying himself with carefully placed hands upon the chair backs, when a voice called out, “You can't go out in that rain, mister. Sit down with us for a while.” So he did. Just to watch. Soon the persuasive voice convinced him to sit in with a hand of poker.
Normally Chapman would never have joined in a game of poker. One had to be willing to loose if one were to gamble, which Chapman was not, simply because he no longer had the resources or desire to loose. But in his current state of inebriation his decisions were not what they should have been and he found himself seated at a rough top table with three younger men. That had been at least two hours ago. Perhaps more. Chapman could not be sure.
Despite his bleary eyes and slurred speech he had won a hand. It was slow going at first and the stakes were small. But then he won another. And then a third. His old friend Lady Luck pulled up a chair beside him, and with her guidance the cards fell his way. A string of hands each concluded with him raking in an ever-increasing stack of coins and bills as the pots grew in size.
The cards were dealt again and Chapman picked them up. Three blacks. Two reds. Jack, seven, four, ten, and eight. The cards blurred and a sudden chill caused him to shiver. Chapman closed his eyes for what seemed only a moment.
“How many?” bitterly asked the man with the deal, who had grown tired of losing to one they had targeted as “easy pickings.” His attention was riveted on every movement of Chapman’s hands.
Chapman sighed. Yes, he was tired. Tired of the game. Tired of everything. Staring blankly through red-rimmed pupils at the money in front of him, Chapman softly said, “Just one,” and discarded the four of clubs. A new card came. Lady Luck had filled an inside straight.
The bets passed around the table and Chapman called. His straight, jack high, had beaten a pair of deuces, and two pair. Basden, whose three queens had come up short, spat out a short, crisp, guttural word. Then:
“Damn mister, how many lucky hands can one honest fella get in a night? Luke, let’s deal them pasteboards again.”
The other men chimed in and bantered in reply the way men full of whiskey do, but Chapman failed to hear their conversation.
He looked wearily at the first card he was dealt. It was the queen of hearts. His whiskey-laden thoughts clouded and pulled him away to rolling fields of green when he was young and newly married....
Anna was her name. Anna McLaren. Of good hard-working stock she was. Her people had emigrated from the Highlands following the potato blight of ’46 and made their way through Canada along the Great Lakes and on west and south into the United States.
Farmers they had been and farmers they were through and through. It was in their blood. And dear Anna was true to form. She was never afraid to get her hands dirty. Not she. Any day spent turning earth with her skirt hitched up on one side, as she worked her way down a row weeding the garden, was a day of contentment.
When she stood up, and the sun caught in her long auburn hair, tied up with some scrap of gingham, her head glowed like a timber fire. Her face radiated like an angel with its own golden halo. It was breathtaking.
Ah, how beautiful she was. Green-eyed and young with freckles on her dimpled cheeks and pale arms. Always merry and uplifting with a witty limerick or simple compliment. Even when the crops failed, her laugh and optimism would turn the worst of moods into a smile.
Her outlook on life was simple; her desires in life were few. Anna’s greatest desire was for beautiful babies. But the years passed and children never came for the Chapmans.
Melancholy swept over Chapman. Long ago he solemnly promised Anna never to gamble again. Now he had broken that promise too. He restrained a whimper as a tear rolled down his cheek. Slowly he lifted a rough hand to wipe it away.
“You gonna play or cry in your beer?” the gruff voice to his left asked him again. Harsh laughter followed.
“Huh? ... What?” Suddenly embarrassed he wiped his eyes again.
“Bet’s to you, mister.”
Chapman leaned forward in his chair, gathered his cards, and unconsciously flipped his coattails behind him with his hands in an almost-forgotten manner. Floorboards creaked as his weight shifted while he pinched up the pants legs of his britches. Picking the cards up he studied their blank faces and then studied the stern faces of the three drovers around the table. He glanced back at the cards and casually laid them face down. With this left hand he lifted and tossed back the two fingers of whiskey that remained in his thick-bottomed glass. A trickle of fiery liquid splashed astray of his mouth, ran down his chin and dribbled onto his already soiled shirtfront.
“I said: ‘Bet’s to you, mister.’”
The vision of a red queen hung in Chapman’s mind. His red queen. Anna.
“I ... I’ve had enough. I fold boys.” His heart no longer in it, Chapman admitted his gambling days were over and longed only for solitude with his thoughts. “Thanks for the game,” and began to fill his coat pockets with his winnings.
“Whaaa? What are you talkin’ about?” spat out the man with the dirty blue bandanna. “You can't jus’ walk out of the game. We’re not done here ... And you’ve got a lot of our money there, mister.”
“Sorry boys, I’m all in. Maybe another time.” Putting on his hat he started toward the saloon door. On second thought he turned back to the barkeep. “Give me a bottle of whiskey, Joe,” and flipped a newly won coin on the bar.
“You really goin’ home this time, Mr. Chapman?” asked Joe, drying off a glass, setting it aside and leaning forward heavily with both arms on the bar. “’Cause I’m not gonna give you a bottle if you’re not.”
“Yes Joe, I’m going home.”
“How ’bout I have Peggy fix you up a room upstairs. You’ll stay here tonight. Okay, Mr. Chapman?”
Chapman’s forty-year-old eyes stared suspiciously at the barkeep. In his current state of mind he did not understand what Joe was saying, nor did he pick up on the concern in Joe’s voice. He knew what went on upstairs. Take a room upstairs with one of the working girls? Not likely. Joe knew better than to ask him such a thing. Anger raced across his face.
“My horse is tied out front, Joe. Just give me the bottle.”
“Mr. Chapman, I really think”
“You ain’t gettin’ me up stairs with one o’ your soiled doves to roll me!” The shout caused heads to turn in his direction. “What’s gotten into you, Joe? Takin’ advantage o’ me just ’cause I’ve had a few. Just give me a damn bottle!”
Reluctantly Joe passed over the whiskey. Chapman turned toward the door.
“Hey, you old rummy!” shouted Basden, the drover with the dirty blue bandanna. “You can’t jus’ walk out o’ here with all my money! I ain’t gonna be had by some ol’ card sharp and do nothing ’bout it.” He grabbed an empty bottle off the table and heaved it across the room. It caught Chapman on the back of the head. With a grunt Chapman fell to his knees.
The drovers loudly moved forward turning chairs over as they went. Just as the three reached the spot where Chapman lay, Basden jerked a top-breaking Schofield clear of its holster, cocked the single-action revolver’s hammer, extended his arm and pointed the big .45 caliber at Chapman’s forehead. “Roll ’im boys and get our money back.”
Boom! Thunder shook the room. Instantly the bar grew deathly still, broken only by the sound of falling plaster. Smoke curled upward from the Greener in Joe’s hands as he hastily slipped two fresh shells into the breech and snapped it shut. Waving its barrels at the three drovers and then motioning toward the doors he grittily said, “You boys bes’ be movin’ on.”
A rapid tension filled the air. Basden’s narrowed black eyes locked with those of the barkeep. A scattergun from less than fifteen feet could make a mess of a man. Would not be enough of him left to stuff a sausage with. Looking straight down the unwavering double barrels and over the back sight, he studied long and hard and knew the apron was not bluffing. After a moment he snorted, gingerly lowered the hammer and slowly slid the pistol back into its leather. “Alright. We ain’t aimin’ for no trouble,” turned and kicked over a chair. “We had our fill of your piss whiskey anyway. Come on boys.” The trio brashly moved out the door stomping up the boardwalk and disappearing into the rain and darkness.
* * * * *
The noise in the saloon brought Toby to his feet. More commotion followed. Toby keenly watched the door, waiting to move forward and saw three men loudly emerge. They obviously were not the one he was waiting on.
He listened intently to the other sounds emanating from the saloon as the rain continued to fall.
* * * * *
“Peggy,”shouted Joe, running as fast as his robust frame would allow from behind the bar to where Chapman lay“find a towel! And hot water!”
“Mr. Chapman! Mr. Chapman! Pleasedon’t move,” said Joe, squatting down beside the prone man. “You’ve been through too much already.” Others crowded around the barkeep, muttered softly, and stared down at Chapman.
Chapman sat up, paused for a second to collect himself and rubbed the back of his skull. Surprisingly there was no blood; only a fast swelling knot where the bottle had struck with a glancing blow. Not exactly sure of what had happened, but still angry at the barkeep, Chapman said: “Stay away from me, Joe!”
“Please stay, Mr. Chapman! Please. Don’t go out in the rain. I beg you“ But Joe’s pleading voice fell upon deaf ears.
Rising wobbly to his feet, Chapman grabbed his hat and forcibly pushed his way through the crowd of concerned onlookers and out the door. He stumbled into the sloppy street, slipped and fell to a knee. On widespread feet he slowly rose, got his bearings, then spotted his horse though the downpour and made his way to it, his boots sucking up muck and water with each stride.
* * * * *
Despite the drunken irregularity of Chapman’s walk Toby instantly recognized the man and emerged from the shadows. All day he had lingered in the rain and cold. Now the long wait was over. Adrenaline surged and flooded his blood. Excitement rose within him as his breath quickened.
Toby’s feet gave a splash as they hit the soaked thoroughfare. The rain blew sideways into his face and ears. He blinked twice to clear his eyes and briefly shook his head. Toby rushed forward moving toward the horse to confront Chapman.
* * * * *
Now in a thoroughly foul mood, Chapman untied the reins from the hitching rack and went to mount his horse. A railroad spike of pain hammered above his left eye. His neck and jaw were growing stiff from the throbbing in the back of his skull. The rain made him morose and the whiskey made him mean.
Holding the reins he grabbed the pommel with his left hand and went to put his left foot in the stirrup. It slipped out and Chapman fell heavily against the side of the dun, clinging to the saddle for balance. The horse gave a small neigh of fear at the awkward movements of the man.
“Dammit! Stand still,” he told the horse.
Chapman tried again and lifted his boot to the stirrup. Hooking his heel he went to sling his right leg over the horse’s rump. The dun stepped back, and Chapman, to keep from falling, involuntarily jerked the reins to his left causing the horse to turn in a semi-circle. “Woah. Woah. Woooooah!” The pair made several pirouettes in a clumsy dance before Chapman slipped and fell onto his backside instantly bathed in grime. The horse trotted up the street as Chapman shouted a curse after it.
* * * * *
Toby stood silently in the rain and watched the fandango, unsure of what to do other than give the nervous dun a buffer of safe clearance. Now that Chapman lay in the street getting wetter by the second Toby went over to him.
“Damn no-good horse,” Chapman grumbled, and caught just a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Taken off-guard, the startled Chapman lashed out defensively and struck Toby in the jaw with the back of his fist. Toby cried out in pain. Shaking his head to clear the smarting of the blow, with puzzled eyes Toby took three steps back out of arm’s reach.
Despite the whiskey haze Chapman now recognized Toby. Through gritted teeth he raggedly belted out, “What the hell do you want, huh? Get away from me! Damn good for nothin’ ... Go on! You brought it upon yourself with what you done. Now git!” Chapman lunged and wildly kicked at Toby but caught only air.
Turning Chapman navigated his way down the street after the horse.
* * * * *
Toby stood sadly watching his friend, not understanding his actions. Since a youngster he had lived with Chapman. It was all he had ever known. As he grew older they hunted and fished together and shared their meals. Now he dejectedly walked back to the doorway and hunkered down out of the rain.
Reflecting for a moment, Toby continued to watch Chapman. Yes, he remembered now. The man had treated him this way since the day not long ago when Chapman dug a hole behind the house. Toby observed him labor with the shovel and continued to watch as he dragged the woman from the house and placed her in the hole. When Chapman turned back to the house Toby jumped down in the hole and tenderly laid his head upon the woman’s silent chest. The scent of her filled his nose. He would miss her kindness.
The next thing Toby knew Chapman was standing over the hole yelling and swinging the shovel, narrowly missing Toby’s head. He couldn’t remember the words Chapman said, but the meaning was clear. Sulking, Toby ran off and hid. Toby couldn’t help what he had done. There was no harm meant. Toby simply had to say goodbye in his own way. Why didn't Chapman understand?
* * * * *
Chapman had just about reached his horse. One more step and he could catch hold of the reins. But his boot slipped and Chapman fell face first into a puddle.
He lifted his now hatless head to hear laughter.
“Look at ’im now, boys. Rollin’ ’round like some rootin’ hog.” It was Basden. “Maybe we oughta string him up and gut ’im like a hog too.” Luke and the third man gave a wicked laugh.
They grabbed Chapman and drug him into an alley. The two men held his arms while Basden sunk a fist deep into Chapman’s stomach. Doubling over, Chapman was only kept erect by those behind him. Basden struck with his fists again and again until he heard the sickening crack of ribs. “I don't think,” Basden said between ragged breaths, “you cheatin’ sumbitch,” pausing to wipe the spittle off his chin with his blue bandanna, “you got any idea what you got yourself into.” He lifted Chapman’s head, pulled back his arm and met the man’s jaw with a brutal right cross. He drew his pistol and struck a vicious clout upon the back of Chapman’s already swollen skull. With a coarse exhale of breath Chapman sagged forward. The men released his arms to let him fall in the mud.
Lying there Chapman wished they would kill him. He had little left to live for. But a primal instinct of survival rose within him. A last reserve of strength wracked his bloodied frame as he rose on an elbow and cried out: “Toby!”
For a fleeting instant the lamplight from a window glinted on the long-bladed knife Basden drew from the back of his belt.
“Get a rope, Luke. Let’s bleed him out.”
* * * * *
Toby wondered how many days and nights had he sat beside the woman as the light in her eyes faded. Her face had grown gaunt and pale. Lavender ringed her once-bright eyes and her long auburn hair now clung in strings across her fever-dampened forehead. In motherly fashion, she tenderly touched Toby and drew him in close, draping her arm around his neck and weakly hugging him. For a long time she looked longingly into Toby’s eyes. Her once song-like voice now gone, in the faded twilight, barely audible above a whisper, Anna Chapman uttered, “Take care of him for me, Toby. Do you understand? You’re all he has left now. Take care of him.” And she died.
When Chapman returned to the house he found his dead wife’s arms still draped around Toby’s neck.
Through his grief, he brushed her hair, washed her face and wrapped her in the same sweat-stained sheets as a shroud. He went out to the shed and found a shovel. Chapman picked out a spot on a small knoll overlooking her garden and started to dig. She would like that.
He had not gotten to tell her goodbye. In her final moments, sensing abandonment, Anna clung to Toby. “It should have been me,” he thought. “I only left the house for a moment ...” And in that moment she died. Chapman felt ashamed and concluded: “I had abandoned her.” Anger and jealously flooded the man and from that moment on hatred burned in his heart for Toby.
After his task was done he filled in the hole, said a simple prayer as best he could and started to drink.
* * * * *
The rain and wind had stopped. Toby’s sharp ears picked up the tortured cry of his name and he bolted from the doorway down the street. Bounding into the alley he found a man in a bandanna bending over Chapman. Toby leaped, knocking Basden down, tearing the man’s sleeve as the knife skittered away. With a bearlike growl Toby turned to face the other two men who began shouting loudly. Both swung and kicked wildly but Toby, too quick for their half-drunk reflexes, eluded the blows.
Basden regained his feet. “Luke! Get a lasso over him!” Luke twirled the rope but missed with his first cast.
Keeping his back to his fallen friend, Toby circled round and fought tooth and nail to protect Chapman. But Toby was outnumbered. It was only a matter of time. Basden, wanting to end it quickly, jerked the Schofield to fire.
* * * * *
Yells and gunfire brought a crowd from Joe’s place out onto the boardwalk, including the recently arrived Sheriff Peters. Following the sounds they rushed into the mud-strewn alley across the street.
Peters found Basden raising an arm to shoot at the prone Chapman. “Drop it!” Basden ignored the command and Peters levered a shell into the Winchester and fired. The shot caught Basden, spun him around, and shattered the bones of his forearm just above the wrist.
The rest ended quickly with Peters arrested three men who put up little resistance in the face of an armed crowd.
As he knelt beside the widowed Chapman, Joe said, “Come on, let’s get you out of this rain. Mrs. Anna would have wanted that.” Looking tenderly at Toby, he added: “I think you owe your friend a debt tonight.”
Chapman stretched an arm around the red setter, hugging the big dog. Through tears filled with remorse he muttered, “Thank you, Toby. Thank you,” and turned his battered face as the rough tongue lapped playfully at his cheek.
“Take care of him for me, Toby,” echoed the final words the woman had said to the only youngster God had given her to raise. And that’s just what Toby did.
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