Monte Walsh

by Jack Schaefer

  "Over by Pietown," he said. "And the Datils. I wonder what's doing there." He turned back into the bunkhouse and made up his meager blanket roll and blew out the lamp and strode out into the night. He moved over by the silent cookhouse and laid the saddle roll down on the doorstep and went inside and in the familiar dimness gathered a few things and put them in an empty flour sack and went out and picked up the saddle roll. Five minutes later he and the old dun were jogging westward toward the mountains and the river beyond them and the range country on beyond.

  * * *

  "A good man? That's one over there by the bar. As good an all-around hand as I ever came across. Not many like him any more. Pulled me out of a spot last spring when I was late with the branding. Of course you can't get him right now. He's got some money in his pocket. Wait a few days and it'll be a different story. Of course by then you may have to bail him out of hock to the sheriff but it'll be worth it. He'll feel he owes you something and you'll get all you paid for and more. Of course you won't be able to hold him more than a season. He's got some kind of an itch that keeps him moving around. But he'll see you through whatever he says he will and you'll be almighty sorry to lose him when he leaves. But he'll leave. You can't hold him when he gets that itch. You can't change that kind. Maybe it's a good thing you can't. They're part of the old days that are sort of fading away. Something's going to be missing from this country when the last of them's gone.

  "Oh, yes, another thing. If you have any horses around that've been giving you trouble, just mention that to him. They won't after he's worked them over some."

  Drifters

  1894-1901

  DRIFT with the years, here and there and wherever the southwestern rangeland still stretches uncluttered from fence line to slow creeping fence line . . . from job to job and none of them meaning much because nothing is ever the same again and they are more and more just jobs and not a way and a sharing of life that sings grim or rollicking as occasion calls in the lean swift summons on mind and muscle ... drinking too much and too often because only in the heat of the alcohol haze do remnants of the past seem near and almost attainable again. But these remain, unalterable while change in the name of progress claims the big land, the hard clean core of individuality in the man, the echo of the past sounding in him in the instant instinctive attitude toward existence ...

  * * *

  They had worked through the huge leased foothills pasture and gathered the cattle, a motley mixed three hundred, and would be shoving these on down the miles to the big holding corral. Four men. Two of them young, part-time cowboys seasonally hired out of the nearest town, on two thin horses that, from the scant sweat streaks showing, had shirked their share of the work. Another the owner, stout, fleshy, full­faced, uncomfortable in sweat-sodden clothes ill-suited to the occasion, racked with a slow-burning irritation that with the price of beef what it was and his note at the bank coming due he had no margin to hire more men and was forced to ride out himself in the heat and the dust like a mere hired hand. He sat heavy in saddle on a sweat-soaked big-muscled nervous bay that dripped bloody froth from the bit in its mouth.

  And the fourth a thickening length of rawhide with many little wrinkles fanning out around the eyes and two lines deepening by the nose down past the mouth in the lean weathered face, sitting easy and erect in saddle on an old evenly­sweated deep-chested leggy dun that had never shirked to the last ounce of effort and had done more than half of this particular job without regarding that as anything more than part of a routine day's work.

  The cattle were well bunched now and the four men sat quiet for a moment to give the horses a breather and gasping shouts from behind turned them to look at an elderly scrubby-bearded man in overalls, minus a hat lost somewhere along the way, a piece of rope in one hand, running toward them. He stopped, red-faced and pop-eyed from exertion, old chest heaving, fighting for breath. "Hey," he said. "Hey ... you got ... my cow ... in there."

  "That's too bad," said the stout man. "That's just al­mighty God too bad. I'm fenced tight. If your goddamn cow gets in with my stuff, that's your lookout." He sat up a bit straighter on the bay. "I'll bet it ain't even branded," he said.

  "Branded?" said the elderly man. "It's a milk cow."

  "That's too bad," said the stout man. "They all look alike to me."

  "You don't understand," said the elderly man. "It's our only one. We got to have that milk."

  "That's too bad," said the stout man. He seemed to derive some secret satisfaction from repetition of the words. He sat up even straighter in the saddle. "All right, I'll give you a chance." He waved a hand at the bunched herd. "Just go out there and get it."

  The elderly man turned toward the herd. He started for­ward. Stopped, staring at the mass of cattle shifting restlessly in the hot sun. He started forward again.

  "But there's one thing," said the stout man, voice suddenly hard. "If you get to scattering my stuff, I'll throw a rope on you and drag you good."

  The elderly man hesitated without looking back. He started forward again and was close to the edge of the herd. He stared out over the shifting cattle. He pushed ahead and was a short way in among them. He slapped gently with the rope in his hand, to clear a way. A two-year-old Hereford steer, annoyed, hooked at him and he jumped back and bumped into another steer which kicked out and sent him sprawling. He got to his feet quickly and backed away more, limping, and stood still, staring at the herd.

  The two young men looked at the stout man and looked away and sat very still on their thin horses, looking away, and the stout man watched the elderly man and a sardonic excuse for a smile twisted his lips and the elderly man stood alone staring at the herd, and his scrubby beard quivered as his old mouth shook in a kind of frustrated helpless hopeless fury and what could have been tears from his watery old eyes mingled with the sweat streaking his face.

  "Take it easy, Pop," said Monte Walsh. "I'll get her for you." The leggy dun moved toward the herd.

  "Walsh!" shouted the stout man, sudden anger plain in his voice. "You keep out of this!"

  The dun wheeled, pivoting on hind legs, and faced the big nervous bay. "What d'you know," said Monte. "Were you thinking of trying to stop me?" He pushed his worn hat with its frayed beaded band higher up his forehead and looked straight at the stout man. "I kind of wish you would," he said. He waited. The dun wheeled again and moved toward the herd and stopped by the elderly man.

  "Brindle, ain't she?" said Monte. "With a crooked horn."

  The elderly man looked up and wiped a hand across his face. His throat worked but no sound came. He nodded.

  "Yeah," said Monte. "And scratched where she went through the fence. Better put a yoke on her after this." The dun moved on, weaving into the herd, quiet and confident, shouldering the way. The ripple of its passage died away behind it, leaving no extra disturbance. It moved in an arc and was coming back, nudging ahead of it a young brindle cow with a crooked horn. The cow was out in the open and dodged fast to get with the others again and the dun leaped, blocking, and Monte dropped sideways down from the saddle, grasping a horn in each hand as he dropped, and stood firm, holding. "Get that rope on her," he said.

  The elderly man hurried to flip an end of his piece of rope around the cow's neck and fumbled to tie it. He stepped back, pulling to test the knot, and looked up at Monte in saddle again. His old throat worked. "I was kind of goodd too oncet," he said. "But that's a long time now." He turned away, yanking on the rope, and the cow followed.

  The dun moved again and stopped facing the big bay.

  "Walsh," said the stout man, voice tight, grim. "As soon as we get this herd penned, you're through."

  "You don't say," murmured Monte. He reached up and pulled his worn hat down more firmly on his head. "Ain't it too bad," he said, "you can't just do that. I happen to of quit about ten minutes ago."

  * * *

  They came around the base of a high steep mesa, seventeen wild desert broomtails, scrub stock thin and stun
ted, tired but with considerable endurance still in their thin wiry bodies. This was the third day of the running and they were into the fifth swing around the vaguely defined sixty-mile circuit of the barren forgotten range that had been theirs undisturbed before and they would not leave even now. They came strung out in little bunches, stopping to look back and moving on, no longer quite so afraid of the dusty unshaven thick-shouldered big-nosed man on a tired buckskin loping along several hundred yards behind them.

  The man closed in, shouting, and they spurted on past the mesa into the open of desert plain and the man swung away to the left in by the mesa base and out of narrow noontime shadow there rode Monte Walsh on a fresh rested gray.

  "They ain't breakin' much now," said the big-nosed man. "See you." He and the tired buckskin kept on, at a steady jog now, to skirt the mesa and strike straight across the middle of the wide circuit toward the other side eleven miles away where two horses waited, picketed in a shadowed arroyo, and Monte and the gray swept out after the broomtails, closing in on them to keep them moving in their constant wearying spurts ...

  Hours passed and shadows of the far-scattered lonely steep mesas were long across the land and the seventeen broomtails were being forced away from their wide circuit, stumbling at a lagging pace, driven hard by the big-nosed man on a mot-­tled roan and Monte Walsh on an old deep-chested leggy dun. Ahead spread two stretches of hasty improvised fence, angled in, funnel-like, to a small opening into a stout renovated corral. The broomtails saw and broke in final desperation, scattering, and the mottled roan and the leggy dun raced, heading them, and they thudded forward along the stretches of fence and saw the opening and scrambled through, jostling one another. The dun slid to a stop on its rump and Monte leaped down and closed the improvised gate and leaned against it. He took off his old hat and wiped a hand across his forehead and down over the three-days stubble on his face.

  The big-nosed man was beside him. He took a dirty bandanna from a pocket and wiped sweat from his face and neck. "You ever run 'em before?" he said.

  "Not since I was a kid," said Monte.

  "You was born to it," said the big-nosed man. "Wisht I'd of known you a few years back."

  The broomtails were quieting now, slowing in their search for another opening, long tails dragging on the ground. One by one they stopped, standing dejected, heads dropping low. They seemed smaller, thinner, more misshapen, in the ab­sence of motion.

  "Cripes," said the big-nosed man. "Look at 'em. They ain't what they used to be at all. Nothin' but runts left these days. I'll be lucky if I make expenses. Reckon I'll go back to black­smithin'."

  "Yeah," said Monte. "There ain't more'n five even worth topping." He straightened and put on his hat at a jaunty angle and a wry grin touched his lips. "Shucks," he said. "Well, anyways, maybe I'll get enough out of it for one good drunk."

  * * *

  They came out of distance, going into distance, Monte Walsh and an old leggy dun. Afternoon sun slanted down on them, a man and a horse, complete in themselves, all that they owned together on them and in the blanket roll behind the saddle, moving together across the immensity of the big land.

  Monte felt the falter in the old dun's stride and he pulled reins and swung down. He stood by the old head with its grayed muzzle, stroking along the bowed neck, and he noted the slight quivering in the old legs. "Goddamn it," he muttered. "If I could carry you a while, I'd sure do it." He moved out, walking, holding the reins, and the old dun followed.

  Monte staggered forward several steps. The dun had nudged into him from behind. "G'wan," he said, walking on. "Forgotten your manners? I taught you to lead right fifteen years ago." He walked on. "No," he said. "Must be closer to twenty." He walked on.

  He staggered forward again and caught his balance and half turned. "Quit that," he said. "Want me to give you a leathering? Personal?" He walked on.

  He staggered forward again. This time he stopped and turned around. The man and the horse looked at each other.

  "All right," said Monte. "Have it your way. Maybe you're right. Just keep on like always. Take things as they come." He swung into the saddle.

  They moved on and time passed and the falter came often now and ahead in a hollow of the rising rangeland showed the squat buildings of a small ranch. They moved down the slope and stopped by a small poled corral that was empty except for a single nondescript middle-aged draft horse. Two men appeared in the doorway of the log house thirty feet away.

  "I hear you got a few horses you need rode," said Monte. "Could be," said the older of the two men. "That is, depending. We don't want them spoiled. They're good stuff. I

  suppose you've got a name."

  "Walsh," said Monte.

  "I suppose maybe what goes with it sounds something like Monte."

  "Yeah."

  "That's ticket enough. Five dollars apiece to get them so they handle right regardless. Light down and join us, food's on the table."

  The two men turned back into the house. Monte led the old dun into the corral and stripped it, heaving his saddle up on the fence and hanging the bridle on the horn. He checked the small trough. Plenty of water. He undid the latch and opened the door of a stout shed in one corner and looked in and entered. He came out with an armload of baled hay sections and dropped these by the trough. He slapped the dun on the rump and went over and latched the shed door and as he headed back for the gate he detoured a bit to slap the draft horse too. "Howdy bub," he said. "You'll never win no prizes." He left the corral and strode over and into the house.

  Twenty minutes later he came out and strolled toward the corral. He leaned against the gate looking over. His hands tightened on the gate top till the knuckles were white. Inside, the old dun lay on its side where it had crumpled down, limp legs sprawled, neck and head stretched out, the lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.

  The two men had followed Monte out. "Hey," said one of them. "Look. Just like that. What did it?"

  Monte swallowed, slow and with difficulty. He had trouble holding his voice steady.

  "Old age," he said. "And hard work."

  "Too bad," said the other man. "He looked like he was all horse in his time."

  "Yeah," said Monte. "He was all right. Whatever it was, any time, he did it."

  The two men saw Monte's face, the flat forsaken rigidity of it, and they turned away and moved toward the house. One of them stopped in the doorway. "Hey, Walsh," he called. "Those horses are in the pasture down by the creek. We'll bring them up in the morning."

  Monte might not have heard. He stood leaning against the gate, hands tight on the top.

  Slowly he opened the gate and went in and closed the gate behind him. Slowly he went to the shed and opened the door and reached in and took out an empty wooden box and closed and latched the door and carried the box and set it on the ground by the rails of the side fence. He sat on the box, still and quiet, and looked at the limp body of the old horse lying in the dust. He sat on the box, still and quiet, and the dusk of this high foothill country dropped swiftly out of the mountains beyond and twice before full darkness came one of the men in the house appeared in the doorway and peered over at the corral and saw him sitting there and turned back inside and once he stirred a little on the box and said to the draft horse munching hay by the water trough: "This time too. Do you understand that? He hung on till he got me here." The cool clean dark of night took the big land and he sat on the box, still and quiet, and the draft horse moved in close by him and stretched its head to sniff him and he reached to pat it along the jaw unaware of the movement and the light in the log house winked out and he rose from the box shivering some in the night chill and went to his saddle on the fence and untied the saddle roll and took his jacket from it and put this on and turned up the collar and went again to the box carrying the blanket and pulled this around his shoulders and sank down again on the box. He leaned against the rails behind him and his head dropped forward some and from under the brim of his old worn hat he l
ooked through cool clean dark at the dim blurred shape of the limp body lying in trodden dust and on back into the miles and the years of a long long trail with a good horse under him ...

  In the first flush of dawn he was up and moving. He opened the door of the shed and set the box inside and took the gear from an inside wall and went out and harnessed the draft horse. He opened the gate and led around to the far side of the corral where a rough log-runnered low stoneboat lay among weeds and hooked the traces to the front eyebolts in it. He drove the draft horse hauling the stoneboat around and in through the gate and maneuvered until the stoneboat was close along the backbone of the stiffened body of the old dun. He took hold of the stoneboat, first one end then the other, and heaved it tight against the body. He looked up. The two men were standing by the open gate, each with a coiled rope and a hackamore in a hand.

  "Need any help?" said the younger man.

  "Want it," said the older man. "Do you want it?"

  "No."

  "All right. We're going to get them. There's coffee on the stove."

  The two men started away. One of them half turned back. "Down by those cottonwoods," he said, pointing, "we had a root cellar. Just a nuisance, found we didn't need it. Caved in now but a nice hole." They moved on, toward the distant line of trees and brush that marked the creek.

  Quietly, steadily, alone with the draft horse, Monte took his rope from his saddle and shook out a loop and dropped this over the four stiff legs of the dun, lifting them to slide it under, and pulled on the rope to tighten the loop. He unhooked the traces and led the draft horse around, facing away from the side of the stoneboat, and tied the rope to the traces hooked together. He took the long driving reins and clucked to the draft horse and it pushed ahead, heaving as the strain came, and the body of the dun tilted up and over and down on the stoneboat.