by Peter Corris
'There's nothing in Wyoming but grass. No, I mean fix you up a job here in Montana and not too far away. You could get into town from time to time, and Glenda could come and see you.'
I've never understood the line about not having your cake and eating it, too. Why the hell not? There's plenty of cake. I took a swig of the apple juice Barclay had recommended and asked Waldo to tell me more.
'Ever hear of the Montana State Parks Authority?'
I shook my head. 'No.'
'Not many have. It's got federal money to protect forests and woodlands and such.'
It sounds strange now when everyone's a conservationist or says he is, but it was an entirely new notion then. 'Why?' I said.
Waldo shrugged. 'Don't ask me. All I know is, there's money going into keeping some ranches operating, and protecting the woods and rivers and animals in and around 'em.'
'What about wolves?'
'I don't know, Dick.' Waldo sometimes got impatient with me, I don't know why. 'All I can say is, if you want a job on a ranch, clean air and water and steady pay, I can maybe set it up for you.'
Glenda came out onto the porch, shaking flour from her hands. She'd been cooking Cornish pasties inside. As far as I know, pasties are the only kind of cooking Butte is famous for. I loved them, and Dr Barclay hadn't said anything against them. 'He wants it,' she said. She went across and steadied Waldo's rocking chair and kissed his red, wrinkled forehead. 'Thank you, Waldo. You're an angel.'
A ranch? What we call a station at home, I thought. All mud and dust and cowshit. Oh, God. There must be some other way.
But there wasn't and that's how I came to work at the Pratt-Carlisle Ranch on the Tongue River in Rosebud county. Waldo may have been a great fixer, but he couldn't get me any closer to Butte than two hundred and fifty miles with the Rocky Mountains in the way. I went because I didn't want to die. The ranch had been declared a national monument or some such foolishness, and every stone, blade of grass and jack rabbit on it was sacred. It covered about eight hundred acres, some of which was forested land. This meant that the 'tree army'19 – a bunch of young snot-noses – was involved as well as the Parks Authority for which I worked. The ranch adjoined the Rosebud Indian reservation so the Indian Affairs Department was in on the act. It was close to where the battle of the Little Big Horn had been fought, and that made the area of interest to gawkers, historians and museum types trying to add to their arrowhead collection.
Sometimes it seemed that there were more officials running around the place than stock. I think we carried about a hundred and fifty head of Texas longhorns, and there was a small herd of buffalo, twenty maybe, that were cosseted like sick kids. Those animals were counted twice a month and photographed more than Jean Harlow. There was even a guy came out to study their droppings. I tell you, if a blind, lame camel had wandered onto the ranch it would've been protected.
I had a pretty soft job – riding about reporting on strayed and sick animals and fences that needed mending. I acted as a guide for the busybodies that came around – federal programme men, scientists, journalists, photographers and artists. The ranch house, built in the 1850s, had been modernised, and that's where the staff lived. All men, worse luck. There were five of us; two riders, both 'lungers'; a bookkeeper, who I suspected was there as an alternative to being in gaol; a Swede gardener/cook who couldn't speak English, and a labourer who did what we told him to, when he wasn't drunk.
I got up early, ate a big breakfast and did my rounds, breathing deeply. I shared with George Blair, the other TB sufferer, the task of looking after the five horses and forcing Carey, the labourer, to do his work. At night we played cards with Brian Lucas, the bookkeeper, using a dummy for the fourth and driving him mad by not letting him smoke and only allowing coffee as a throat-wetter. Blair was also under the care of Dr 'Spot' Barclay. The Swede couldn't play cards, the same as he couldn't cook or garden. We got our supplies – groceries, meat and vegetables, no liquor, no tobacco – on a voucher system from the general store in Hardin. The town wouldn't have been far away by car, but was a fairish ride by wagon which was our only means of transportation. Peaceful, restful, you think? Healthy? I would've gone stark, staring mad if it hadn't been for two visits to Butte to see the doctor and Glenda's couple of trips out to the wilderness.
My lungs were the two most important things in the world just then, but I rather resented the way Glenda showed more interest in them than in any other part of my anatomy.
'What's your weight?' she asked, as we were getting set for a quick session on the feather bed. It was November and I'd been at the ranch almost three months.
'Jesus, Glenda, I haven't seen you for three weeks and you want to weigh me like a steak.'
'You still look thin.'
'That does it.' I rolled off and looked at the wooden ceiling beams. We were in the master bedroom of the house. Why I rated it I don't know, but I didn't complain. I let go a little cough and stared at the ceiling.
Glenda knew she'd offended me. 'Ah, honey. I'm sorry.' She began to stroke me. 'Lungers get pretty horny, I hear.'
'That's right. Especially if they're stuck in the bush with men and cattle and buffalo.'
'You do talk funny sometimes, Dick. Stuck in the bush – there ain't no bushes around here. Just trees and grass.'
She continued stroking and before long I'd stopped sulking and we were making the old floorboards of the ranch house jump. After we'd finished, and I'd fought off the longing for a cigarette, we lay back and looked out the window at the clear, pale sky.
'Seriously, Dick,' Glenda said. 'How you feeling?'
'Great. Couldn't you tell?' It was true – I'd put on nearly ten pounds and hadn't had a sweating fit in weeks.
'No blood?'
'Only when I cut myself shaving.'
'Always the joker. So you figure you're gonna mend, huh?'
That sobered me a bit. 'I go for a test in a month. Doc Barclay says that'll tell the story.'
'A month. OK.'
'What's that mean?'
'I'm having a little trouble with Curly.'
'That bastard. Take advantage of a sick man. I'll . . .'
'Don't worry, Waldo's handling it. Gee, that means you'll be coming into town for the test.'
'Right. Let's celebrate.'
'Sure. We can go to a movie and have Waldo over for dinner.'
'A bottle of wine, maybe?'
'No, Dick, and Waldo'll have to do without his stinking cigars.'
'Should be a fun night.'
I put in another month at the ranch. It was cold now but the place was in a valley that trapped some sun and was favoured by a gentle wind that kept everything from icing up. The snow came but it didn't get too deep, and the cattle and other animals sheltered in the hollows and the woods. I went into Butte for the tests.
'Well?' I asked Barclay after he'd examined me. This was a week after he'd taken specimens of everything my body produced.
'Tell you come Easter.'
'Jesus, I'm living from holiday to holiday!'
Barclay stopped his note-making and scratched one of his liver spots. 'You're living,' he said.
I told Glenda one lung was better and one was worse. It didn't make for a good Christmas. I shouldn't have done it, but when the only topic of conversation is your health you've got to have some fun with it. Waldo visited, and he didn't look well. I was grateful to him and I put myself out to be good company. An old Dudleigh Grammar boy can always turn on the charm when he wants to. There was one bright note – my salary was building up quite nicely in the bank in Butte. It was 'everything found' at the ranch, and Carey and Lucas didn't play cards any better than me so we tended to just move a small amount of money around between ourselves. I also had some gold dust and a few small nuggets I'd panned out of the Tongue.
Nothing much happened at the ranch over winter; some animals froze to death, and the Indians killed some. That raised a nice point about 'protected species' but no one was particular
ly interested. I got on pretty well with the Indians, what little I saw of them. I remembered some of the sign language20 I'd learned when I'd spent some time with a band in Canada, and we had some fun with that.
I didn't drink and I didn't smoke. I chopped a lot of wood, ate and slept well and felt fine. The papers got to the ranch two weeks late, but it didn't matter because the news was all about how America was on the rise while Europe was going down. I didn't much like the sound of Hitler, although I suppose he had some good ideas about roads and things. I had a feeling I wouldn't get along too well with Stalin either. Churchill'd be more my style – brandy and cigars . .. God, I thought a lot about brandy and cigars.
The thaw was well advanced by Easter. Things were running smoothly at the ranch, but I hardly noticed. I was keen to go into Butte to see the doctor. But a few days before I was due to go Glenda telegraphed the news that Barclay was sick. I've still got the telegram. [A crackling sound on the tape of old, stiff paper being unfolded and a clicking noise, probably Browning putting on his reading glasses. Oddly, Browning's reading voice sounds faintly Australian, unlike his normal speaking voice which is American-accented. The telegram has not been located among Browning's effects. Ed.]
Dear Dick
The doc isn't too well stop Nothing serious but he isn't working for a couple of weeks stop Guess everything is real pretty out at the ranch stop I think I could live there forever stop
love stop
Your best girl Glenda
In the end it was May before I got to see the doctor. He brushed aside my enquiry about his health and got down to examining me. He made clicking noises as he did so. He hadn't done that before so I guessed I was either healing well or didn't have long to go.
'Looked at yourself in the mirror lately, Dick?'
'Well, no. Not much call for it out there, and the bathroom's been bloody cold.'
'You look five years younger than when I first saw you. Filled out, got all that yellow crap offa your teeth. Eyes're clear. You don't look like you're ready to cut a man's heart out for twenty-five cents.'
Well, that was all very good, but the tough look had stood me in good stead. I wouldn't last long in Butte looking like Ronald Colman. I buttoned my shirt and tied my tie. I could feel the scragginess had gone from my neck. 'What're you saying, doc?'
Barclay chuckled. 'I'm saying again that you're a recuperating marvel. You're as good as cured, boy. Another few months on the ranch and then a clean life and you'll make old bones.'
'That's great! How clean?'
'Real clean. Now get on over and see Glenda. I understand she and Waldo've got some news for you.'
I shook his hand and made for the door.
'Dick,' he said. 'Stay at the ranch till June, just to be sure.'
I was getting around in a Chevy station wagon I'd hired in Hardin and driven over the mountains. I drove to the club and went up to the flat Waldo lived in above the place. He and Glenda were there, and when I gave them the news Glenda started crying – a very bad sign.
'Oh, Dick,' she sobbed, 'oh Dick, I'm so happy.'
I gave her a kiss and my handkerchief. 'Sure doesn't sound like it. Hullo, Waldo. Aren't you going to offer me a drink?'
'Dick!' Glenda was suddenly dry-eyed and up on her hind legs. I think that was the moment I knew it wasn't ever going to work out between us.
'Just kidding,' I said.
Waldo's ugly mug was even uglier when he smiled, but he did it so rarely you knew he meant it. 'Wonderful news, son. Didn't I tell you "Spot" Barclay was the best?'
'Hey, hey, don't I deserve some of the credit? Living in the sticks like a bloody monk . . .'
'That ain't quite true,' Glenda said.
Waldo coughed in an embarrassed sort of way and poured coffee for us all. We sat down, me and Glenda on the sofa and Waldo in an armchair. From the way he twitched, I could tell he was busting to light a cigar. It made me uncomfortable – I've never been one to deny people their pleasures.
I drank some coffee and would've traded ten years of my life for a shot of brandy in it. 'Well,' I said, 'what's this news the good doctor says you've got for me?'
'It's more of a proposition, really, ' Waldo said.
Glenda giggled. 'Or a proposal.'
That put me on my guard. I looked at my watch. 'Gosh, is that the time? I have to get the brakes on the Chevy checked before I set off . . . '
'Dick, I haven't got a family, that is, no kids. I've taken a shine to you and I want to put you in my will.'
That's very handsome of you, Waldo. I . . .'
'Leave you the club, couple houses, fair bit of cash.'
I looked at them both sitting there, smiling, sharing a secret and suddenly wished I was a thousand miles away.
'What's the catch?'
'I wouldn't call it a catch.' Waldo couldn't help himself; he fished out a cigar and unwrapped it. 'There's a condition. I'd like to see you and Glenda married.'
'I'm married already,' I said.
Glenda smiled. 'You were married, you told me, and I told you the same. Well, it didn't take but a couple of months for a private detective to find out that I ain't married any more.'
'It's not quite the same thing. I was married in Australia. Different laws, you see. Very complicated . . .'
'So what?' Glenda said. 'You go down to Mexico and get divorced. It's legal here, and that's what counts.'
Waldo lit his cigar. 'Don't like the idea, Dick?'
'You don't love me!'
Like all singers, Glenda could really turn on a good wail when she tried. It wrung Waldo's heart. Not mine. I had to think fast. I stood up and moved towards her, then I stopped and coughed. That always does it – when a lunger coughs, people pay attention. I coughed some more, deeper now and staggered a little. I changed direction unsteadily and leaned against the doorpost, handkerchief out, coughing into it.
Glenda jumped up. 'Dick, what's wrong?'
I held her back with my hand and gasped for breath. 'Have to get back to the ranch. I'll write. Bless you both.'
I yanked the door open and bolted down the stairs. I hit the street running and sprinted several blocks to where I'd parked the car. I was in it and revving the motor before some thought processes started to take hold. I drove to the First National on Silver Street and drew out all but a dollar of my funds. If memory serves, I had about eight hundred dollars. The gold I had at the ranch was maybe worth about that much again. It won't take you far, Dick, I thought. Not in any style, but far enough.
13
It was a long, hard drive over the mountains back to Hardin, and I was dog-tired when I reached the town. I planned to rest there for the night, drive to the ranch and collect my things and maybe arrange to drop the car at the Billings railhead the next day. At the two-bit hotel the clerk, pasty-faced with slicked-back hair and bad breath, offered me a room at the back over the kitchen.
I put a twenty on the counter. 'Look, I understand your problem. I'm a lunger, right? Blood-spitter. Well, I can tell you Doc Barclay in Butte has given me a clean bill of health.'
The clerk fingered the bill but didn't take it. 'Mister, seein' you've got twenty dollars, I wouldn't care if'n you left a lung in the bathroom. But that's the only free room I got.'
'The Governor visiting?'
'Nope, some movie people. Goin' to shoot a movie out by the Tongue, I hear. All right by me, I hope they stay all summer. You want the room?'
'There's nothing out there but trees and grass.'
'And Injuns. I hear the movie's about Injuns. I hope they pay 'em in cash 'cause no Injun born can hang onto money. Be real good for the town. A dollar for the room.'
I paid and went up the stairs into the narrow, hot, smelly room. I heard sounds of laughter and shouting at various times through the night but I was too tired to pay much attention. I slept late and the hotel was deserted when I went down to the lobby. The clerk's hair was mussed; his hangover was visible in his eyes and on his breath, which smelled w
orse than before.
'Breakfast?'
He shook his head and regretted it immediately. 'Too late.'
'Where is everybody?'
He reached under the desk for a pint bottle, lifted it slowly and took a swig. It was almost enough to put you off drinking. He swung the register around towards him. 'Now that jus' might interest you, mister. I see you give the Pratt- Carlisle ranch as your address. Well, that's where the movie folk've all gone. 'Bout an hour ago, though how some of 'em could get their heads off the pillows is beyond my understanding.'
'There's no mystery to it,' I said. 'They just don't go to bed in the first place.'
I drove out to the ranch and found the place a madhouse – there were trucks, loads of timber, reels of electric cable and people everywhere. Of course, it was all familiar to me from my earlier experiences in Hollywood, but it still gave me a shock. I never expected to see this particular kind of insanity again. I went to the house, planning to get my gold, clothes and a few other things and head off to Billings. I opened the door and there was Lucas, the bookkeeper, standing deep in discussion with a small, dark man I instantly recognised. It was too late to close the door.
'Dick,' Lucas said, 'I want you to meet someone. This is the man I was talking about, Mr Rosson. This is Dick Browning.'
'I don't believe it. By God, it is. "Beverly Hills" Browning!'
We shook hands. 'Hullo, Art. That was a long time ago.'
'It sure was. Say, you look great. This guy's been telling me you . . .'
'I've recovered,' I said. 'Would you excuse us, Brian?' I shepherded Art Rosson towards the living room. He'd been in Hollywood almost since the beginning. I think he started as a stuntman, then he became a second string director in the silents. I'd met him when I was working for Fairbanks on Robin Hood21. We'd talked at a few parties; I couldn't remember any dirt about him and I was pretty sure he didn't have anything on me. He sat down carefully on one of the old chairs and lit a cigarette.
