Monte Walsh

by Jack Schaefer

  Slash Y

  1881

  CAL BRENNAN put the Slash Y together.

  Likely the officers and shareholders of the Consolidated Cattle Company would have said they did. Only the Honorable Robert H. Winslow among them might have had brief passing doubts. They would have been thinking in terms of the investing of money, the acquiring and ownership of range land and lease rights and buildings and corrals and water holes and wells and windmills and dirt-holding tanks and certain shifting numbers of cattle and horses and the natural increase of the same--all of which, to them, was never much more than statistics on the paper of annual reports. In the legal sense they put the outfit together and it was theirs.

  But the Slash Y was only incidentally such things. It was really a group of men oddly assorted in size and shape and education and lack of it and disposition and capability, alike only in general cattle-country background and rawhide toughness of muscle and willingness to risk their necks to get a job done, men owned by nobody and by nothing except their own loyalty to each other and to the outfit that paid their wages. Cal Brennan was the man who brought them together.

  * * *

  Cal came out of Texas like most of the early cattlemen of the west. Whether he was born there or how long he had been there was anybody's guess. He was tight-lipped on his own early years, though he did let slip once that at one time he had been married and had a couple of kids and it was apparent now and again that he had scant use for Indians in general and Comanches in particular and for a while he carried in his war bag a pair of stringy dried scalps and anyone curious enough might have put those facts together for some kind of meaning. He was old enough to have been around for both the Mexican and Civil Wars, but he never joined in talk of them. All that was certain was that when the latter war was over and the trail drives north were starting and Texas longhorns were beginning to seed the ranges of most of the west, Cal Brennan, no young one, already well into the weathered middle years, was riding north with a half-dozen tough young Texans and his own herd of onetime mavericks combed out of the west Texas thickets. What was certain too and what any of those same young men could have told was that he was a cattleman from way back.

  He went up the trails four-five times, ramrodding his own crews, and he was a name wherever the rawhide squint-eyed men rode and sat around fires chewing the cud of the trails and the dust of the long lonely drags. Then his joints began to complain at too long hours in the saddle and he took to staying in Texas, assembling small herds for sale at a fair profit to younger men with the northward itch. What he wanted now was something permanent, his own spread. He knew cattle and he knew horses and he knew men. That should have been a winning combination. But bad luck tagged him. All right, perhaps there is no such thing as bad luck, not in so consistent a sense; it must stem from something in a man himself. Perhaps Cal was too much interested in doing, not enough in having and holding; in some ways he was an old-fashioned hangover living on into an era of increasing big-time operations with money and the manipulations of it becoming more important than the mere sweat of working. Call it bad luck, a jiggle in the cosmic time sequence. Every time he had a fair stake and was establishing his claim to a fair piece of range, that bad luck knocked on his door. When a dry spell killed his best spring and a grass fire ruined his range and he had to sell what stock he had at a loss, he stretched up and looked out westward over the charred land. "New country, new chances," he said. "An' only one direction's ever really made sense to me."

  What was west of Texas was New Mexico Territory.

  Cal Brennan came into the territory with a younger slow­moving barrel-built cowhand following him like a shadow. Goodnight and Loving and a few others had led the way and more Anglos were coming in, taking over here and there, pushing the Spanish-Americans aside by one means and another, few of those means exactly pretty. Cal knocked around, learning the new land and its ways, he and the barrel-built man, and after a while he had himself a place, acquired by one of those means which he never bothered to mention afterwards. Out where distance slipped into distance i n the clean sweep of southwestern spaces and rugged mountains rimmed the horizon. An ancient adobe house with a sagging veranda that had already been many things through a century and more. A rickety pole corral and what had once been a shed. A piece of fair grassland to which his title was as good as any could be in the territory in those days. Best of all in that semi-arid country, not only a good well but a spring-fed year-round water hole not half a mile away. On his land. Cal set to doing and the barrel-built man was right there with him. In a couple of years Cal was beginning to feel comfortable. He had a small growing herd and when he culled out for cash he could market on the small scale he was operating down at El Paso or up at Santa Fe which for a one­time Texas trail boss was not much of a drive either way. The Indian issue all but faded from his mind. There were no Comanches anywhere around and the Apaches southeast­ward some on their reservation were, for them, fairly quiet and the Pueblos westward along the Rio Grande even taught him something. When they came to him, quiet and courteous, and asked permission and included his land in a colorful full­scale efficient rabbit drive, he learned that they were people. Not being given to Texas brag, he got along middling well and steadily better with the Spanish-Americans in the general area and when he needed a few extra hands now and again he found that some of them were good horsemen and well acquainted with ropes. Then that bad luck knocked again. All right, maybe he invited it. He had to be doing. There was a huge Spanish land grant adjoining his place that no one seemed to be laying active claim to at the time. It was the same as open range and the grass there looked good to him. He borrowed money and bought cattle and he hocked himself to the limit and bought more and he was set for a come spring and a good market.

  Come spring and the winter had been a hard one and C and the barrel-built man and a couple of young Spanish Americans were worn and weary and the market was bad.

  * * *

  Cal Brennan came along the wagon trace on a tired dusty bay and stopped by the sagging veranda of the old adobe house and swung down and let the horse stand. He unlooped a small buckskin bag from the saddle horn and counted silver dollars into the hands of two dark-haired swarthy very young men who had appeared apparently out of nowhere and listened to their softspoken gracias and watched them go to small stout corral that had replaced the rickety one and swing up on their own scrawny horses and ride away in distance. He turned toward the barrel-built man sitting on veranda edge watching him.

  "We1-1-1-1," he said. "That's it. Everythin' gone. Even this place. Man named Winslow's got it. Range deliv'ry of what cows're left end of the week." He moved over and settled slowly on the veranda edge and laid the small buckskin bag beside him.

  The barrel-built man pushed up and took the reins of the bay and led it to the corral and in and pulled off the saddle and heaved this on a top rail and rubbed the horse briefly with an old burlap bag. He came out, leaving the bridle hanging on a gatepost, and walked, slow and silent, back to his perch on the veranda.

  "But I'm clean," said Cal. "Squared off everythin'. Not owin' nobody a cent. Except you." He reached for the buck skin bag.

  "I ain't needing it," said the barrel-built man. He took a remnant of tobacco plug from a pocket of his worn leather vest and bit off a chunk and chewed slowly. "But you do," he said. "For starting again."

  Over in the corral the bay rolled, rubbing itchy back, sending up a small cloud of dust.

  "I ain't so sure," said Cal. "I ain't so sure I got it in me to start again."

  The barrel-built man shifted the quid from one cheek to the other and spat a quantity of yellowish liquid well out from the veranda. "I am," he said. He thought that over. "Mean I'm sure. About you."

  Silence and afternoon sunlight held the sagging old veranda. Off along the wagon trace dust rose and something darker showed in it and seemed to creep through distance and approached and was a light buckboard drawn by a flop-eared mouse-colored mustang
at a steady trot. Cal Brennan narrowed eyes into the sunlight to make out the two figures on the seat. His shoulders squared a bit and the weathered skin over his lean face tightened. "Bennie, from the liv'ry," he said. "An' Winslow." He shifted position for a more direct view and leaned back against one of the veranda posts. "Bein' kind of previous," he said.

  The buckboard stopped thirty feet away and the two men Climbed down. The driver waved cheerfully and led the horse with the buckboard trailing to the water trough by the corral and went to work on the handle of the old pump. The other man, neat in dark business suit with linen duster flapping open over it and a narrow-brim dark hat, shook himself, slapping away dust, and ran a finger around inside his high starched collar and approached the veranda. He nodded at the barrel-built man, acknowledging his presence and dismissing him in the single nod, and faced Cal Brennan. There was an alert brisk efficiency in his movements and in his voice.

  "Warm out here," he said. "Even this time of year. Brennan, you are a hard man to follow. I thought you would be around town a while. When I went looking for you, you were gone."

  "Certain I was gone," said Cal. The touch of a drawl always in his voice deepened some. "Finished my bus'ness. I ain't exactly fond of that kind of bus'ness. An' maybe of the kind of people mixed up in it."

  "Of course," said the man quickly. "You were on the losing end. Squeezed out. But that happens, you know. To all of us one time or another. But sometimes all for the best." He ran a finger again around inside his collar. "Look here, do you mind if I sit down?"

  "I might," said Cal. "But I ain't riled enough yet at your bein' here to do anythin' about it."

  The man hesitated, studying Cal, then the tiny wrinkles around his eyes deepened and his mouth twitched in what could have been a small smile. He took off his linen duster and folded it and laid it on the veranda. He eased himself onto the edge leaning back against the next post, turne enough to face Cal across the space between. "Very nicely put," he said. "You mean you are waiting to hear what I have to say before you decide whether to be what you call riled. I have won my first point. I have made you curious You are wondering why I followed you so fast after wha happened in town a few hours ago."

  "It took some nerve," said Cal. "I'm givin' you credit on that."

  The man's mouth twitched again. "I did think of asking that deputy marshal to come along," he said. He saw the small answering flick of Cal's eye muscles. Encouraged, he hurried on. "But look here. I hope you realize there was nothing personal in what happened. Business. Strictly business. I believe in talking straight and putting things plain." He turned his head, slowly, looking at the old adobe house the small corral and the pump and the patched-up shed. "I must say this place does not look like much to me. But then, very little out in this incredible country does." He looked straight at Cal. "All the same I know that you had something here. Just about everything as a matter of fact. Everything you needed for your little cattle operation. Except one thing. Capital. Money. To carry you through. Am I right?"

  Cal raised a hand and rubbed it down a lean cheek and over his chin. "Reckon you are," he said. "But bein' right ain't no odds agin my gettin' riled."

  "I think it will be," said the man. "Look here. You were bucking something too big for you. On the money end, that is. You have to have money to make money. Now the money end of things is what I know. Capital is what I have. I am not speaking just for myself in this. I represent the Consolidated Cattle Company. Nothing small scale about it. Backed by a syndicate in New York, though we have our main offices in Chicago. We have been operating in Illinois and Indiana. You know, mostly farm and feedlot business up that way. Some holdings too in Iowa and Nebraska. Now we are pushing into this territory. Sort of jumping the gun, you might say, on other companies that are grabbing everything to the north. We have been keeping quiet, checking the possibilities. Several weeks ago we acquired that Spanish grant just below here, have it tied up tight. That is a big piece of country. And there is plenty of public land adjoining. Open to us as well as to anyone these days. We have the right contacts in Washington. When the government gets around to doing something with it, we can hold plenty of it under tight leases. It will be a big operation. But we had to have this place."

  Cal Brennan sat quiet and relaxed against his post, looking steadily at the man. "Water," he said.

  "Right," said the man. "Water. Good water for use while other sources are being developed. So now you could say that we have everything. Including what you lacked. But again except one thing. What you had. Experience. Experience in this kind of country. Knowledge. Knowledge of this kind of range cattle business from the grass roots up. That is where you come in."

  Cal Brennan straightened a bit against his post. He looked down at the worn toes of his old high-curved-heel boots.

  "Yes," said the man. "I already know more about you than you might imagine. Discounting a few things that could give the shakes to my colleagues back east who have not been out here and seen his country, I would say most of it good. For what we need. I have the say-so on this. I want you to take charge of the operation out here. On the ground. I suppose you might call it range manager."

  Farther along the veranda the barrel-built man stood up and stretched. His shoulder joints made tiny creakings as he pushed elbows out and back. "Said I was sure," he announced to the world and settled back down on the veranda edge.

  Silence and sunlight held the front of the old adobe house. Over by the corral the driver of the buckboard sat on the ground, back to rails, and whittled slowly and methodically on a small piece of wood.

  Cal Brennan sat very still on the veranda edge, staring down at his boot toes. He raised his head. "An' how d'you know," he said, "that I wouldn't be stealin' you blind?"

  "Two reasons," said the man. "One is that we would cut you in for a few shares of your own so it would be to your advantage to run things straight."

  "The other one," said Cal.

  "The fact you asked me," said the man.

  Silence and sunlight held the front of the old adobe house. Over by the corral the driver of the buckboard held up the piece of wood that was beginning to resemble a whip handle, inspected it carefully, returned to his whittling.

  Cal Brennan sat very still, staring down at his old boot toes. He seemed to have forgotten the brisk neat efficient man facing him. "The Montoya grant," he murmured softly, very softly. "That's a lot of good grass. An' backin' to spread out more." He raised his head and looked into the great clean distances of the big land. Beyond the farthest fading horizon he saw in memory long lines of cattle moving north an rawhide-hard squint-eyed men on tough little cow ponies moving with them. "We could headquarter right here," he murmured. Slowly his head turned and he looked steadily a the other man. "Would I be havin' you an' others like you my hair all the time?"

  The man hesitated, looking as steadily back. His lips tightened as decision seeped through him. "No," he said. "I can not always guarantee how the other directors will behave but I can speak for myself and I can assure you that as long as things seem to be going all right and they receive a reasonable return on their money, they will not interfere much if at all. You would be in charge of the operation here, on the ground. Subject to some instructions on purchases and marketing and of course an annual audit. You know, a thorough check of all records by a good bookkeeper. That ought not disturb your hair too much." He hesitated again, studying Cal. "We could put something about that in your contract."

  "Contract?" said Cal. "Have one of the fool things if you want. But I give my word, I keep it. An' expect others to do the same. When they don't, I do some thin' about it. What you got in mind for a brand?"

  "Brand?" said the man. "Of course. I had forgotten that we will need one registered here in the territory. Do you have any suggestions?"

  "I'd kind of like to use mine," said Cal. "Slash Y. Sell it the comp'ny for a dollar an' a handshake."

  The man stood up. Brisk, efficient. "Settled then," he said
.

  "I will see you in town tomorrow to go over the details. And I will try to have that contract ready. For your protection as well as ours. I doubt we will have any trouble arriving at a figure. And I will be in town as long as necessary to help you get things started." He chuckled, dryly, briefly, reaching for the kind of friendship he did not know how to grasp. "That help for right now I imagine will be chiefly writing checks. You know, drawing on that capital. For the buildings you will need and for stocking the range. Things like that."

  "There's somethin' else we'll be needin' more," said Cal.

  "Yes?" said the man. "And what is that?"

  "Men," said Cal Brennan. "Real men."

  * * *

  New activity fretted the morning serenity of the neighborhood of the old adobe house. Off to the right two swarthy middleaged men bent low over their forms and their mix, making adobes for what would be a bunkhouse and a smaller cookhouse. Close by the small stout corral where the patched-up shed had been, three men in overalls unloaded planks from a big flatbed wagon for what would be a long low barn. Where the pump still temporarily sprouted its old iron handle the barrel-built man, wrench in hand, bolted together the metal struts of a small windmill tower.

  Cal Brennan sat again on the edge of the sagging old veranda. He saw none of the nearby activity. He was looking far in memory into the miles and the years. Every now and then he raised a hand holding a pencil stub to his mouth and licked the end of the pencil and reached to write in his crabbed script a name on a small piece of paper beside him. A breeze blew the paper and he moved quickly and caught it. He tucked it and the pencil stub into a shirt pocket and rose and went into the old house. In a few minutes he emerged, big wide-brimmed battered old hat on his head, gunbelt buckled around his waist, jacket on over it, a blanket roll tied in its tarpaulin under one arm. Teetering a bit on his Absurdly high-curved-heel boots, his one personal vanity, he walked to the corral and in and bridled and saddled the bay and tied the roll on behind. He led the horse out and the barrel-built man was there, by the gate.