Monte Walsh

by Jack Schaefer

  "How come,' said Monte, he always gets the girl in those yarns he's spinning?"

  "Because he's telling 'em," said Chet.

  The man in the patent-leather shoes finished a fresh tale, paused in verbal stride, took a fat black cigar from his inside coat pocket, expertly bit off the tip, and tucked the cigar between his lips under his trim mustache. He reached with both hands into pockets of his vest and took from one a ten-dollar bill and from the other a match. He struck the match on the bar and lit a corner of the bill. As this flared with a small flame, he held it up, enjoying the sensation around him, and lit the cigar. He blew a fragrant cloud of smoke for the edification of his audience.

  "Wow," said Monte at the front end of the bar. "Did you see that?"

  "Yep," said Chet. "And did you see him, while they was watching the smoke, shake the thing out and put it back in a pocket. It's just a trick."

  "Trick?" said Monte.

  "Sure," said Chet. "Long as more'n half is left it's still good. Any bank has to take it and give you a new one."

  "What d'you know," said Monte. He stood straighter, beginning to rock a bit on his toes. His face began to brighten.

  "No," said Chet. "Don't even think of it."

  Monte said nothing. He tossed off the remainder of his drink, set the little glass down, and started to move along the bar.

  "Wait," said Chet. "You got to-"

  "Hush," said Monte. "You keep out of this. I'm doing it."

  Chet sighed. He relaxed against the bar and watched the proceedings with solemn interest.

  Monte stopped, confronting the bartender. He fished in a pocket and laid a dime on the bar. "Hey, Joe," he said. "A cigar. A ten-center."

  The bartender picked up the dime, tested it between his teeth, reached under the bar and laid a fat black cigar where the dime had been.

  "And now," said Monte, bright, cheerful. "Now I'm needing a ten-dollar bill."

  grin.

  The bartender straightened, stared at Monte, raised his eyebrows, and leaned down again over his paper.

  "Shucks," said Monte. "I only want to borrow it for a bit. Have it back here in half an hour."

  The bartender hitched himself and paper a few feet away from the immediate vicinity.

  "Tell you what I'll do," said Monte. "If I don't have it back by then I'll give you this belt."

  The bartender straightened again, stared at the deerskin belt around Monte's middle, leaned closer, reached to finger the silver buckle. "Don't know what I'd do with the damn

  thing," he said. "I'm a suspender man. But it's a dull day. Five dollars."

  "Ten," said Monte. "You don't watch out I'll make it twenty."

  "You'll do what?" said the bartender.

  "Make it fifty," said Monte, bright, cheerful. "And dance a jig all over your stingy carcass too."

  The bartender rubbed a chin, remembering many things that had happened at many times in the vicinity of his bar with Monte in the middle of many of them. "Well," he said.

  "In that case . . . But you're only borrowing it, remember. For half an hour."

  Cigar in one hand, bill in the other, Monte moved past Chet toward the doorway, bouncing jauntily off his toes.

  * * *

  Chet Rollins sat on the edge of the little porch of the general store. By turning his head some he had a fine view along the street and of the adobe building with freshly painted screen door. He waited, serenely expectant, letting a small pebble dribble from one hand to the other and back again.

  The screen door swung open, wide, all the way to bounce off the adobe wall beside it. Monte Walsh strode out, dismay and disgust plain on his face. Ignoring the two cow ponies drooping patiently by the tie rail, he came along the street, sucking the fingers of his left hand. He saw Chet and slowed. He sank down beside Chet and scuffed at the ground with one boot toe. "You talk too damn much," he said.

  "And you," said Chet, amiable, conversational. "You're too damn quick on the trigger."

  Monte held up his left hand, examining it carefully. "The blamed thing went with a whoosh," he said. "All of it. Burned my fingers."

  "That's what I tried to tell you," said Chet. "You got to hold it so it's burning just at the top. Let the flame be at the bottom and it flares up and gobbles the whole thing."

  "Ten dollars," said Monte. "And she just laughed fit to kill a horse. Likely laughing yet."

  "What'd you expect?" said Chet. "You're going at it wrong. You ain't noticed how she wears her hair. Stylish." He rose to his feet. "Come along. You got a debt to pay. We got some mail to get."

  Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins emerged from the frame shack that had been the temporary quarters of the Harmony post office for at least fifteen years. Under one arm Chet caried a sheaf of newspapers rolled and tightly tied around a batch of letters. Monte wore a piece of rope around his waist where the deerskin belt had been. They moved along the street, were approaching the combination hotel and office building. The bear tethered to the cottonwood beside the building was sitting on its haunches, scratching itself lazily with one forepaw. Monte stared at the bear, his eyes begining to brighten.

  Chet stopped and looked at Monte. He looked at the bear and back at Monte, who was beginning to rock a bit on worn old boot soles. "No," said Chet. "You ain't that much of a

  fool."

  "Shucks," said Monte. "I feel mean enough right about now for anything."

  "Forget it," said Chet. "Hat let us come for the mail today. Today. We don't get back before the day's over he'll have our hides. We better be starting."

  "Shucks," said Monte. "A day ain't over till midnight. "That's plenty of time. Laugh at me, will she? I'll show her something."

  He moved off, bouncing off his toes, up on the veranda, in through the open door. "Hey, Engle," he said to a man wearing a green eyeshade who was writing in a ledger at what passed for the hotel desk. "You still offering to any comer on that critter out there?"

  Over by the low front window the man in the leather vest bearing the tarnished badge rose from an ancient armchair. "Lovely," he said. "I was figuring something might develop when you boys hit town. I'll just spread the word."

  * * *

  Almost the entire population of Harmony, permanent and transient, was gathered near the ragged cottonwood, in a' semi-circle out from the building at a respectful distance from the tree itself. Closer in were four figures, the leather vest man with a big nickel-plated watch in one hand, the eye-shade man with a short stick busy drawing a line on the ground in a circle around the tree about ten feet out from the trunk, Monte Walsh stripped of hat and gunbelt and busy tightening the piece of rope around his waist, Chet Rollins; standing beside the leather vest man and watching the proceedings with solemn interest. The bear sat on its haunches, body upright, back against the tree, lazily blinking small' bright eyes, and yawned in patient resignation.

  The eyeshade man completed his circle. "That's it," he said. "You have to stay inside that line. You get knocked outside you have to go right back in. More than thirty seconds' outside and you're disqualified and outside time doesn't count. You mix it with Otto there any way you want, wrestling, boxing, but you have to keep him busy. You last two minutes inside time, you get ten dollars. Otto won't hurt you too much. He doesn't bite and his claws are clipped. It's only fair I tell you nobody's lasted two minutes yet. Are you sure you want to try?"

  Monte was surveying the assembled populace. Out on the edge he saw Miss Hazel, who was clutching a letter in one hand to prove she had just happened to pick this time for a quick trip to the post office. He grinned at the eyeshade man.

  "Shucks," he said. "Sure I'm sure. Right about now I'm loaded for bear."

  Chet Rollins, unnoticed by anyone, quietly pulled his gun from its holster, checked the cylinder, slipped it back, and moved closer to the leather vest man where he could keep one eye on the bear and the other on the watch in the man's hand.

  "All right Monte," said the leather vest man. "I'm clocking this. Say
your prayers and step in anytime you feel the urge."

  Monte drew a deep breath and moved forward, bouncing off his toes. He stepped over the line. The bear regarded him with only a mild show of interest. He moved forward again, cautious, crouching, and poked an experimental fist into the soft fur of the bear's upright middle. The bear rose a bit off its haunches and as if he had poked a button batted mechanically at him. Monte parried some of the bats and took the others with only slight jars. The bear sank down again on its haunches and yawned its lack of real interest.

  "Yowee!" yelled Monte. "This ain't bad!" He plowed forward, rocking the bear's head with a blow alongside its jaw and smashing another into its middle. The bear rose on its hindlegs, suddenly looming much larger, displaying much more interest, and smacked at him with paws flying fast and powerful. It staggered him this way, that way, and with a back-paw flip under the chin sent him flying to one side and down, sprawled across the circle line.

  "Yowee!" yelled Monte, scrambling to his feet. "That's what I need! Action!" He plowed in again, head down, fists flailing, and the bear, grunting at the blows, let him come and swept paws out and around and scooped him into a tight hug. Air left Monte's chest with an audible whoosh. He wrapped his own arms around the bear and rocked with it, straining, heaving.

  Wild noises were rising from the assembled populace, about evenly matched, for Monte, for the bear. The old man in too big old clothes was close in, jumping up and down in ancient shoes with flapping soles. "Atta boy, Monte!" he shrilled. "Massacree that hunk a fur!"

  Monte managed to get some clearance and brought up a knee, hard, into the bear's middle. It grunted, full of interest now, small eyes dancing, and let go of him and as he staggered back a bit followed him on short hindlegs, batting at him with deft powerful jolts. Another back-paw flip sent him rolling, head over heels, outside the circle, to stop close by Chet Rollins's boots.

  Chet looked down, solemn, interested. "Forty seconds to go," he said.

  Monte pushed up to hands and knees. He reached with one rather limp hand and slapped at Chet's leg. "Shucks," he gasped. "I'll get the son of a bitch this time." He rose to his feet, wobbling, and plunged back into the circle and dove to tackle the bear around its short hindlegs.

  The bear, two hundred ninety pounds of it, came down on top of him and again air left Monte's chest with a definite whoosh. Gallantly, as if in respect for a stimulating opponent, the bear rolled off, rose again on its hindlegs, and waited for him to rise. He made it to his knees, weaving, dazed. The bear calmly, as if measuring him for the knockout, cocked its head to one side regarding him intently, leaned forward and smacked one obviously well-calculated blow on the top of his head. Monte collapsed, eyes closing. The bear dropped to all four feet, sniffed him for certainty, and retired to relaxing position against the tree.

  In the dim interior of the livery stable Monte Walsh, limp and motionless, lay stretched along four bales of hay. Scratches and bruises showed on his face, several rips in his faded old shirt, his general appearance considerably lumpy and battered. There were drops of water on his cheeks and the upper part of his shirt was wet. Gunbelt and hat and the roll of mail lay on another nearby bale. On yet another sat Chet Rollins solemnly regarding him. Chet rose and filled a tin dipper again with water from a pail sitting on the floor. Gently he sloshed water over Monte's face. This time Monte's eyelids flickered, opened, and he stared up at the dim recesses of the timbered ceiling. Suddenly he sat up and looked at Chet.

  "You missed by ten seconds," said Chet.

  Monte groaned. He moved his head about, testing neck muscles, wincing some. He swung his legs over the side of the bales and stared down at his boot toes.

  "Well, anyways," said Chet. "Nobody else ever lasted past a minute and twenty."

  "Sure," said Monte, morose. "I'm a goddamned two-legged wildcat. But that don't pay off." He looked at Chet and away. "How about-"

  "She laughed again," said Chet. "But if it pleases you any, she didn't seem to be enjoying the laughing much."

  "The hell with her," said Monte.

  "Like I say," said Chet. "You been going at it wrong. You ain't noticed how she has her nose in those fancy magazines all the time. Hooked full of lady-gentleman kind of stuff."

  "The hell with her," said Monte. "I'm through trying. In that direction anyways. Let's get back to the ranch." He picked up his hat, jammed it on his head, took the gunbelt and slapped it around in place, fumbling with the old iron buckle.

  "There you go," said Chet. "Always so damn previous. With your bill-burning and playing patty-cake with that bear, now we can't get back in time for a decent meal. And I'm hungry. We eat here. That is, if you ain't afraid to face her."

  "Afraid?" said Monte, jerking up straight. "Me? Afraid of that snip-nosed thing? Shucks, as far as I'm concerned, she don't exist any more. Just something to hand out food."

  * * *

  Dusk drifted over Harmony as the last light of the sun, now below the horizon, glowed rose and red up the western sky. The two cow ponies, patient by the tie rail in front of the small adobe building, stood with bridles hanging from saddle horns, limp tie ropes leading from their necks to the rail, and nosed with chomping jaws into two small piles of hay brought from the livery stable. Lamplight shone cheerily out through the freshly-painted screen door and around the edges of the calico curtain at the window.

  Inside, on the last two stools at the right, sat Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins busy with soup-sized spoons and nearing the bottoms of two ample bowls that had been filled with chili and beans and stray chunks of chopped beef. Chet was eating in steady rhythm punctuated by occasional breaks for gulps of coffee and big bites of bread, Monte in spasmodic spurts between glowerings into the depths of his bowl. Miss Hazel was deftly removing the debris left along the counter by other now-departed diners, looking anywhere, everywhere, except at Monte Walsh.

  The screen door opened and in came the man in the patent-leather shoes, resplendent as ever in full regalia. The sweet scent of shaving lotion emanated from him. His waxed mustache positively glowed in the lamplight. He advanced to the counter, removed his bowler hat with a small flourish and a slight bow toward Miss Hazel. "Good evening, young lady," he said and picked a stool near the left end, sat down upon it and laid the hat on the one beside it.

  Miss Hazel gazed at him, fascinated. She looked over at the lean battered disheveled shape of Monte Walsh slumped over his bowl, sniffed, and looked back at the man. One hand rose to test the smoothness of the upsweep of her hair. She beamed her brightest smile.

  The man looked about for a menu, saw none, shrugged his plumpish shoulders inside his pin-striped suit. "The dinner," he said. "All the trimmings."

  Miss Hazel's smile faded some. "But," she said, "but-but we only have-"

  "Oh, come now, young lady," said the man, bowing slightly toward her again. "I'll have the dinner. You know, the specialty of the house. The best."

  Miss Hazel backed toward the partition doorway, bumped into the doorjamb, swung hastily around and disappeared. She reappeared almost instantly, having forgotten the usual beginning amenities. Hurrying, she put a cup and two spoons, one regular-sized, one soup-sized, in front of the man, stooped to take the big enamelware coffeepot from under the counter and filled the cup. She disappeared again into the rear room.

  The man sat still, very still, surveying the meager array in front of him. Small frown furrows began to appear on his forehead.

  Miss Hazel returned, admiring glances at the man interfering with her usual deftness. She set before him a plate bearing two large thick slices of bread and a pat of butter and an ample bowl full of beans and chili with stray chunks of chopped beef.

  The man stared down at the bowl, disgust deepening on his face. "No," he said bitterly. "It's too much. I spend all day in this godforsaken hole of a town. I associate with all kinds of unwashed fools. I spend money. I treat the yokels. I jolly the customers. I pull stunts for them. And all I get is forty dollars worth
of orders. Forty . . . measly . . . dollars. And now this." His voice climbed in almost a shout. "I won't stand for it."

  His voice dropped, contemptuous now. "Look here, my girl. I'm a civilized man. I'll be goddamned if I'll eat any stinking peppered up mess like that. Now you hop to it. Take that swill back and bring me some civilized food."

  Over on his far right stool Chet Rollins stirred, shifting weight to rise. A hand on his thigh stopped him. Monte Walsh was uncoiling upward to full lean muscular height. All the defeat and frustration of the afternoon were rising with him, focusing on a convenient and appropriate target. He moved along the counter, a lithe length of dynamite ready to explode. One hand brushed the bowler hat to the floor and the other took his gun from its holster. He eased down on the stool where the hat had been and rested the hand with the gun on the counter.

  "Mister," he said, quiet, deadly. "Out here in this godforsaken hole we don't talk to a lady that way. You'll say you're sorry and you'll say it pretty."

  Miss Hazel, back against the shelves, face very white, one hand up at her mouth, was staring at the man.

  Stiff, rigid on his stool, the man slowly swiveled his head to look at Monte. His eyes flicked down to the worn nicked tarnished deadliness of the gun and back to the bruised battered deadliness of Monte's face. He remembered dirt flicking over his shiny shoes. He remembered a bear becoming interested in a stimulating opponent. With an obvious effort he turned his head toward Miss Hazel. "If . . . if I . . ." he said. "If I offended you, Miss, I'm sorry. I didn't really mean it."

  "And now," said Monte, quiet, deadly. "You'll eat that chili."

  Miss Hazel, back against the shelves, chewing on the knuckles of one hand, color coming back into her face, was staring at Monte. The man, hurried, quivering a bit, was busy with the soup-sized spoon.

  He gulped half a dozen spoonsful, choking on some of them. "It's-it's very good," he said. "But I'm not really hungry." He laid the spoon down, watching Monte out of the corner of one eye, fished a silver dollar from a pocket of the gaudy vest, and laid it by the spoon. Quickly, almost furtively, he swung around and off the stool, scooped up his hat, and made for the screen door.