Monte Walsh

by Jack Schaefer

  "My oh my," murmured Monte. "Things do kind of happen around this place." He rose and went out the front doorway and strolled toward SALOON, rolling the cigar between fingers and flicking ash from it. He stepped through the swinging doors, surveyed the livening in progress down the left and at the rear of the long room, located the four standing by the front end of the bar along the right. He moved to join them.

  "We been waiting, Monte," said Hat, pushing a small filled glass along the bar. "Anything we should drink to?"

  "Shucks," said Monte, taking the glass. "I could give it a whirl."

  Five men stood by the bar end, fingering glasses, looking everywhere but at each other.

  "Goddamn it!" said Monte Walsh. "I ain't thinking of stealing horses! Just make me a little real money for a change!"

  "Sure," said Hat. "Sure. Sure, Monte. A man'd be a fool to pass up a thing like that."

  "You're goddamned right," said Monte. "I been chousing other people's cows, peeling other people's broncs, sweating my goddamned skin off for peanuts ever since I got big enough to hit out for myself. And what've I got? The clothes I'm standing in and one scrawny little old horse."

  "1 ain't even got that," said Sunfish.

  "Ees right," said Dobe. "Ees one beeg hell of a life."

  "So that's it," said Chet, short, matter of fact. "We got something to drink to." He raised his glass.

  Five men drank, stood fingering glasses, looking everywhere but at each other. Silence held the front end of the bar.

  "Hey, look," said Sunfish, pointing at Monte's left hand. "A seegar. He's living high already."

  "Shucks," said Monte, flipping the cigar out over the swinging doors. "Those things can wait. This is tonight."

  "Damned if it ain't," said Hat, beginning to count out money into five small piles on the bar.

  * * *

  Antelope Junction slept in clear star-pointed dark of night over the big land. Not yet the five figures, unsteady on feet, uncertain in movement, fumbling with blankets under the scraggly cottonwood by the station corner.

  "If any of you was to ask me," said Hat, "which you won't being too pie-eyed to think straight like me, I'd say we did mighty good. Five of us. Only one hundred piddling little dollars. And we made it last the whole goddamned evening."

  "We'd of made it last longer," said Sunfish, "if you'd of had the sense of a flop-eared jackass to remember how that Morrison runs a bluff."

  "Me?" said Hat. "Hows about Dobe bucking the tiger like he had dollars coming out his ears?"

  "Ah-h-h," said Dobe. "The poker." He spat in disgust. "The faro now. That ees the game."

  "You can lose faster at it anyways," said Hat.

  "And ween faster," said Dobe. "I ween too. For a time." Silence settled, broken only by soft grunts and rustlings.

  "I ain't running out on you, Hat," said Monte, sitting up.

  "You don't need me. Not with those tame things. Act like maybe they're even housebroke."

  "Sure," said Hat. "Sure. Sure, Monte. They won't be no trouble at all."

  Silence settled again.

  "Hey, Chet," whispered Monte. "Maybe I could get that Johnson to take you on. Roping."

  "No," said Chet, short, matter of fact. "I don't look like a cowboy. So I'll just go on being one."

  Antelope Junction drowsed in morning sun. The limp dog, after a night of foraging activity, already lay, motionless, in the shadow of the water trough in what would have been the plaza. On top back rail of the third corral sat Monte Walsh, boot toes hooked behind the second rail.

  Moving over the first rise rolling into distance southward fifteen young fat lazy shorthorn bulls padded along under a rising dust cloud, shooed ahead by four men on four stout little cow ponies, tagged by a lean packhorse on a lead rope. The little cavalcade pushed on and dropped out of sight.

  "Shucks," murmured Monte. "They might of waved. I ain't gone and died."

  He pushed out from the fence, landing springy-kneed, and strolled around the corral and across the way. In the doorway of ROOMS & EATS stood the man in the white hat, neat, spruce, polished, prosperity and good cheer exuding from him.

  "Fine," he said. "And dandy. Absolutely jim dandy. I knew you would see opportunity beckoning in the bright light of morning. Our host is stirring up some breakfast. Come along and join me." He stepped out and threw a brotherly arm around Monte's shoulders.

  Monte winced under the arm. He straightened shoulders and came along.

  "Yes, sir," said the man, leading toward the table. "You string along with Oscar J. and you'll go places." He folded into one chair, waved at another. "Now how about money? You need some? You know, sort of an advance."

  Monte winced a bit again. "No," he said. "Not till I start earning it."

  The man leaned back, admiration plain under the big hat. "That's what I like to see," he said. "Spirit. Stand on your own two feet. We'll go far together, my boy. I can see it now. Top billing. That's what you'll get before long. By earning it too. Riders? They're everywhere these days. Dime a dozen. Stay on a horse. Do good work on a horse. But awkward. Bags of potatoes. Now a natural rider. Rare, my boy, rare. The moment I saw you out there I knew. Knowledge. Science. Know what the horse'll do before the horse does. Master of every-"

  "Shucks," said Monte, stirring on his chair. "I just throw a leg over and ride."

  "Of course," said the man, beaming at him. "A natural. That's you. But Oscar J. knows. Wait'll you see how I play you up on the posters. I couldn't sleep on that bed. Spent the time thinking up good ones. Like this. .."

  "What's the matter?" said the man. "You aren't eating."

  "I ate some with the boys," said Monte, rising. "See you later, I got a few things to do." He strolled out the doorway and breathed in deeply and moved along to the left. He stopped and sat on the store platform, pulled off one boot, turned it up, shook it. A silver dollar fell out. "Kind of mean," he murmured. "But I had to hold it out." He picked up the dollar, put on the boot, strolled on. He stopped by an adobe hut. "I guess this is it," he murmured and opened the door. He stepped into the small front room and settled into a slant-backed old chair fastened atop a small platform. A small brown-skinned big-mustached man bustled in from the back room.

  "Shave," said Monte.

  "Si, senor," said the small man, bustling around a small stand with various items on its top ...

  Monte rose from the slant-backed chair, stepped to the wall, surveyed himself in a small cracked mirror. "So that's what folks back east think of," he murmured. He turned to the small man. "Bath?" he said. "Scrubbing? All over?"

  "Si, senor," said the small man, pointing to the back room. Monte looked through the doorway. In one corner, suspended from the ceiling, small stepladder standing near, was a fair-sized washtub. A rope hung from one handle. Just beneath its outer edge hung a bucket with holes punched in the bottom. Monte reached to the small stand, took a small cake of soap from its top, a towel from its undershelf. He reached again and took a half-filled bottle of toilet water.

  "My oh my," murmured Monte, stepping out the front door of the adobe hut, sniffing himself. "Just like a lily." He strolled toward ROOMS & EATS, slowed, stopped to look in

  SALOON.

  "Howdy," said a man behind the bar, wiping glasses. "Monte, ain't that what they called you? Come in. Have one on the house."

  "You was singing a different tune yesterday," said Monte, stepping in.

  "There was five of you then," said the man, pushing a drink forward. He leaned on the bar. "You know, Monte. It ain't the money you boys spent here last night. I was plain tickled to see you take that blowhard. He was sure strutting in here before."

  "Thanks," said Monte, tossing off drink, strolling out. He started again toward ROOMS & EATS, slowed, shifted to amble vaguely over toward the tracks. "Those colts at the place," he said. "That new bunch of three-year-olds. There ain't a mean one in the bunch. Chet can top 'em off all right." He ambled on.

  Out of somewhere among the hapha
zard houses appeared the bald-top man, aiming for the station, carrying several small pots.

  "Hey, Killer," said Monte. "How'd you finish yesterday?"

  "One hundred and eighty-nine," said the bald-topped man. "That is not a record. No. But I will let you in on a little secret. I am trying something new today. I intend to make me some flypaper." He moved on.

  A breeze stirred and a dust devil whirled out from behind the station. Monte watched it pass and disintegrate over by the livery table. "No more of that," he murmured. "Not for me. Dust in your nose, your mouth. In the coffee. In the biscuits. Cooking yourself in the sun. Sleeping in wet blankets. Tailing up dumb cows. Smelling of 'em. No more. It's high living for me."

  He strolled on, angling toward the first corral. "Women," he murmured. "Flocking around. Money in my pocket. Regular." He leaned against front rails, staring over, unseeing.

  Gradually his eyes focused on a patch of pressed dust where a rawboned mottle-hided horse had hit grunting on its side. "Yes," he said, suddenly, loud. "Yes. That fat-faced cow­smelling baboon sure threw him."

  He fidgeted some, not liking his thoughts. He strolled on, was passing the second corral. Inside, by a small water trough where some hay lay on the ground, stood a deep­chested leggy dun, chewing in slow rhythm. "Almost forgot," murmured Monte. "Got to get rid of that thing. Can't take him on the cars." He stared at the horse. "Who'm I kidding?"

  he said.

  Far out in sun-washed heat-shimmered distance fifteen fat lazy yearling bulls plodded in compact bunch, Dobe Chavez and Sunfish Perkins riding point, Hat Henderson and Chet Rollins and the packhorse bringing up the drag. They worked down to a wide steep-sided arroyo, along it to a crumbled low stretch, and pushed across.

  "Can't hurry these things," said Hat, looking at Chet, "or they'll start dripping lard." There was no response. He tried again. "It'll be something different," he said, "when they've been out on the range a while and sniff a few cows." He sighed and quit. The little herd plodded on. The riders slouched in saddles, enduring dust and heat and time. Chet's black pricked up ears and turned head to look back. Chet and Hat swung in saddles. Far down the back trail beyond the arroyo crossing, dust floated upward. A rider, tiny, indistinguishable in distance, came into view around a shoulder of land, driving forward along the hoof tracks. Straight to the arroyo he raced, disdaining to swing aside to the low crossing. The horse reared, pawing sky, then plunged downward, plowing down the high bank and out of sight. Hat and Chet pulled reins, staring back. The horse reappeared, head and shoulders heaving up over the near bank, scrambling up, lining out, belly low, straining legs a blur across the distance.

  "Jeeeeesus!" said Hat. "There ain't but one crack-headed son of a wild jackass rides like that."

  * * *

  "Yes," said Chet Rollins, straightening in saddle, ten years sliding from his shoulders as he straightened. "There's only one."

  Dust flew from under pounding hoofs. The leggy dun stretched out like an oversize frantic frightened jackrabbit.

  "Yow-eee!" yelled Monte Walsh, standing in stirrup. "Hold up, boys! I'm a-coming!"

  * * *

  A friend of this newspaper who recently returned from travels through the Territory reports the following incident:

  On Saturday evening last a small boy was struck and injured by a wagon on the main street of the town of Harmony. The accident occurred when the small boy, Arturo Montoya by name, was playing with a dog and suddenly ran out from behind a building. The driver of the wagon, one William Hotchkiss, stated that he was unable to stop or turn the horses in time. The boy suffered a badly crushed leg.

  The local doctor took care of the boy but expressed it as his opinion that his patient would have to be taken to Denver for expert surgery or he would never walk again. Needless to say, neither Mr. Hotchkiss nor the boy's parents and relatives were in a position to meet any such expense.

  At this juncture the men of one of the local ranches rode into town, their pockets heavy with pay for a month's hard work, their minds made up to get rid of it to the tune of a weekend of revelry. They inquired what was the trouble. They fidgeted about and talked among themselves. Then they promptly emptied their pockets and gave it all to the doctor for "that poor little cuss." There being nothing further for them to do in their penniless condition, they turned about and rode back to the ranch.

  We understand that at the time of this writing young Master Montoya is in a hospital in Denver.

  Christmas Eve at the Slash Y

  1884

  THE DAY dawned still and clear, windless with the winter night chill of the high country lingering in the air. Stringy clouds clung gray and heavy to the tops of the mountains to the west but that was nothing unusual in late December. The sun, below the horizon to the east, sent edgings of color along the far high-hanging clouds and the first faint pink flush of a fine morning touched the roof of the cookhouse in which the men of the Slash Y were finishing a late and particularly hearty breakfast.

  Range manager Cal Brennan set his coffee cup down and pulled a doubled-over paper bag from a side jacket pocket, unfolded this, shook it gently. A soft rattling sound came from it. "I ain't takin' the trouble," he said, "of decidin' who's goin' an' who's stayin'. I'm makin' it an even chance for everybody, includin' Skimpy here an' myself too. There's twelve of us an' there's twelve beans in here. Nine white an' three brown. White ones go. Brown ones stay."

  He held the bag by his left hand up above eye level and reached into it with his right hand. The hand emerged holding a white bean between thumb and forefinger. "Well, well," he said. "Bein' nice about this's paid off nice too." He passed the bag to foreman Hat Henderson.

  Hat held it up, reached into it. A white bean. "Reckon I live right," he said and passed the bag to Monte Walsh.

  Monte held it up. "Gambling's a sin," he said. "That's what my mother used to say. Must be true 'cause I never have any luck at it." He reached in. A brown bean. "See what I mean?" he said, aggrieved. "And I got new boots too."

  "No bellyaching," said Powder Kent, taking the bag. A white bean. He flipped it up and caught it coming down. "Don't fret, Monte. Miss Annie won't even miss you. Not with me there."

  The bag passed on down and around the long table. White beans. Sunfish Perkins held it up. A brown bean. "Aw, hell," he said. "I ain't much on dancing and such anyways."

  The bag passed on. Chet Rollins held it up. Two beans left in it, a white and a brown. Chet's glance flicked across the table at Monte slumped on the bench staring down in disgust at the bean in his hand and flicked back to the bag. He reached in. It could have been a white bean emerging between thumb and forefinger but before anyone could be quite certain it slipped from his fingers and back into the bag. "Damn," murmured Chet, softly, cheerfully, and reached in again. A brown bean. He tossed the bag to Skimpy Eagens standing at the end of the table. "It's all yours," he said.

  The sun was an hour up, warming the air, driving the night chill back into the mountains under the hanging clouds. Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins and Sunfish Perkins sat on a top corral rail, facing in, watching the nine white-bean winners saddle up and strap behind saddles blanket rolls containing whatever extra adornments each cared to or could carry along. The nine had a forty-five mile ride ahead of them but what was a mere forty-five miles to the prospect of Christmas Eve festivities at the headquarters of the Triple Seven for which folks were gathering from an even wider radius around--festivities that in one form or another would likely continue all the next day and perhaps the next or until energies and the food and liquor supply gave out.

  "You know," said Monte, morose. "I been thinking. That bag game wasn't exactly fair. First pickers had best chances what with more white beans still in there. I'll bet Cal had that figured."

  "Sure," said Chet. "But you can't squawk much. You were one of the first."

  Monte gnawed on a knuckle. "That just goes to show," he said. "Luck and me we ain't even acquainted. Someday I'm a-going to--" He stopped. Skimp
y Eagens had left his horse' and was calling to him. "Come along, Monte," said Skimpy, bending to slide between corral rails. "Something to show you." He led toward the cookhouse.

  Inside, on the wide plank shelf near the big old wood stove, limp well-washed flour sacks were tucked down over two humped objects. Skimpy removed the covering of the first with a flourish, disclosing the plump plucked carcass of a wild turkey in a battered roasting pan. "Cal brought that in two days ago," he said. "It's stuffed. All you got to do is get a good fire going and put it in. About two hours. A little basting'd help."

  "Basting?" said Monte, somewhat brightened.

  "Just scoop up hot juice and dribble it over," said Skimpy. He lifted the second covering, disclosing a squat dark ball of pudding in another pan. "Course those plums ain't fresh, only canned. But there's a snitch of brandy in it. Just warm it up some."

  "What d'you know," said Monte, brightened more.

  "Not till tomorrow," said Skimpy. "That's what they're for. And maybe I'll show you something else. Cal figured to let you just find it when you started rooting for food but maybe he's hoping you'd just miss it." Skimpy pulled open a bulging potato bag under the shelf and took out a full unopened bottle of whisky.

  "That," said Monte beaming, "is the best yet. I'll just take charge of that right now."

  "You can read, can't you?" said Skimpy, holding the bottle up. A small piece of paper was flattened around it with a tag end of string. On the paper was written in Cal Brennan's crabbed scrawl: "Not to be opened till Christmas."

  "All right," said Monte. "But put that thing back quick."

  "Too late," said Sunfish Perkins from the doorway. "I got a good look."

  The sun was an hour and a half up, warming the air, reaching for the rim of frost left around the inside top of the corral water trough by the night chill. Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins and Sunfish Perkins sat on the same top rail, previous positions reversed, watching the dust of the nine white-bean winners fade off northward into the nothingness of distance across the big land.