by Les Weil
Two of a Kind
1879
DUSK DROPPED GENTLY over Dodge. Lean and long in the patch of lamplight, Monte Walsh emerged through the open doorway of a small barbershop into the relative quiet of early evening along Front Street. Three times he had been here and each time the town surprised him with its growth. It was not as wide open as it had been last year or the year before that but still there was plenty to keep a man occupied while he got rid of his hard-earned pay. He rubbed a hand down a smooth-shaven cheek and sniffed himself in slow satisfaction. "Just like a flower," he murmured. "I reckon she'll like that." He ambled lazily along the street, considering the possibilities of temporary time-passing entertainment.
A sudden burst of shouts and guffaws came from one of the lesser saloons. A man's head appeared over the doors, looking out. "Hey, Monte," he called. "Come on in here. This is good."
Monte ambled over and in. A dozen or more men, including the bartender, were standing in a tight circle around a small table. As Monte approached they opened the circle to take him in and he saw, sitting beside the table, a big burly man in a patched jacket. On the table was an empty gallon clear-glass jug. Not quite empty. Coiled in the bottom, shifting coils angrily, head raised, was a small rattlesnake.
"Tell 'im, Bert. Go ahead, tell 'im."
"Why, sure," said the burly man. "There ain't nothin' to it. You just put your hand on that bottle and leave it there while that pet a mine strikes. You leave it there an' I pay you a dollar. Fastest money you ever made."
"You don't say," murmured Monte.
"Of course," said the burly man, "if you don't, you pay me a dollar."
Monte looked around at the expectant faces. "Any of you made money at it?" They regarded him in silence, expectant, waiting.
"Of course," said the burly man, "if you ain't got nerve enough..."
Monte's jaw tightened. He fished in a pocket and took out a silver dollar and laid it on the table. He leaned forward and placed his right hand, fingers outstretched, against the side of the jug. Instantly the snake struck, blunt head smacking against the glass, and Monte's hand leaped back. Fresh shouts and guffaws broke from the others. The burly man reached and took the dollar.
Slowly Monte straightened, staring down at his hand. "What do'you know," he murmured. "Acted like it didn't even belong to me." His jaw tightened again. He pulled out another dollar and laid this on the table. He leaned forward and gripped the table edge with his left hand and placed his right hand against the jug. The snake was still, motionless, with head raised.
"It's got to strike," said the burly man.
Tiny drops of sweat appeared on Monte's forehead. A tremor of effort ran down his right arm. His forefinger moved on the glass and the snake struck and the arm, instinctive, involuntary, leaped back.
Men shouted and pummeled each other around the table. The burly man reached for the dollar. Monte stared down at his hand. "Why, goddamn it," he said. "If I didn't need that thing, I'd cut it off and throw it away."
"There ain't nobody can do it," said the burly man, expansive, grinning. "Got somethin' to do with your arm actin' befor your head can stop it. Expect I've got me enough dollars to set 'em up for all you boys."
Time passed, pleasantly warmed with whisky, and two victims had been enticed in and paid their dollars and a third, bullet-headed, big-nosed, needing no enticement, had stumbled in, needing no additional cargo of whisky to make him mildly belligerent.
"Ain't no stinkin' little of snake gonna bluff me," he said.
His dollar was on the table. His hand was on the jug. The snake struck and the hand jumped back a few inches then forward again against the jug and the man glared around at the guffawing others. His hand moved again, away from the jug, and kept on moving and, as he straightened, took the gun from the holster at his side and the men across the table from him leaped aside. The first shot shattered the jug and the snake slithered through broken glass toward the edge of the table. The second shot put a hole through the table top, taking the snake's head with it. The big-nosed man dropped the gun into its holster and looked about, triumphant.
The burly man rose from his chair, took off his patched jacket, laid this over the back of the chair. "I don't like that," he said. "I don't like it at all." He plunged toward the bignosed man and was met halfway.
The table banged over, catching another man on the shins. He hopped, yipping, and struck out and hit another in the stomach, who promptly replied in what seemed appropriate manner. The contagion spread. The little saloon began to fill with fine tension-easing activity. The bartender retreated behind his bar and watched in routine resignation.
Monte Walsh, eyes alight, picked the likeliest tangle of hammering humanity and started forward. He stopped. He backed away toward the doorway. "Can't go getting mussed up," he murmured. "Not tonight." He slipped out and moved along the street, away from the sounds of carnage behind him. He pushed through figures running toward the sounds and ambled steadily on.
One of the figures stopped, turned, came after him. "Hey, Monte boy. I been lookin' for you."
Monte stopped, turned, recognized the trail boss who had paid him off three days before.
"Yep," said the man. "I sure been lookin' for you. When I hear that ruckus I figured you'd be there."
"Me?" murmured Monte. "Just a decent citizen keeping the peace."
"Somethin' wrong?" said the man. "You sick?" He sniffed. "Smellin' pretty too. Well, anyways, I got a wire from the old man this afternoon. He's got another bunch of cows he wants shoved up here while the grass is still good."
"My oh my," murmured Monte. "Go to working again while I still got money in my pocket?"
"You still got money?" said the man. "You gettin' old? Slowin' down?"
"Shucks, no," said Monte. "Just learning to stretch it out some."
"That's gettin' old," said the man. "Come on. I found some of the others still around. We'll be pullin' out in an hour."
"Not me," said Monte. "I got other ideas."
"Hope they backfire an' blow you somewheres hot," said the man. "You got any other notions might help me?"
"Shorty Austin's in there," said Monte. "Getting an ear chewed off."
"So you was there," said the man. "An' now you're out here. Beats me. Well, anyways, Shorty might do. See you sometime." He moved away, toward the now diminishing sounds of battle.
* * *
Monte Walsh sat by the rim of a round table at the rear of the Long Branch Saloon, a small pile of chips in front of him, paying scant attention to his cards, dropping out of most hands. Elsewhere around the rim sat the impassive flack-coated black-mustached houseman, the stout proprietor of a funeral parlor, a young square-built trail-worn cowhand with a short stubby pipe sticking out of round stubbly face, a thin hopeful clerk from the Lone Star general store, a prosperous-looking watch-chained man who could have been a banker, a nondescript narrow-eyed man who could have been anything at all. Monte paid them little more attention than he did his cards. He was waiting out Dodge's recent rule that ladies of the evening should not adorn the evening until it had progressed to midnight.
Monte played along, nursing his chips. He sat somewhat sideways on his chair so he could watch the front end of the bar and the swinging doors beyond. He took a cigarette paper horn one shirt pocket, a small tobacco bag from the other. He cradled the paper in one hand and shook the bag over it with the other. A few flakes fell out. He crumpled the bag and tossed it over a shoulder and contemplated the cradled paper in disgust. A small leather pouch landed with a soft thud on the table in front of him. He shook tobacco from the pouch and tossed it back. "Thanks," he said to the stubblyfaced cowhand across the table.
Smoke lifted in two thin streamers from Monte's nose. He won a small pot and even that failed to interest him much. The hopeful clerk left the game, temporarily out of hope, and his place was taken by a railroad section hand.
Business improved along the bar. Two women in attire once gay now l
ike them showing signs of wear came in and were greeted and absorbed into the increasing press by the long brass rail. Monte fidgeted on his chair. Another woman, frowsy in limp-feathered big hat, entered and stood just inside the doorway.
Monte rose from his chair and laid his hat on it. He strode forward. "Beg pardon, ma'am," he said. "Where's Miss Lillie?"
"Who cares?" said the woman.
"She told me she'd be here," said Monte.
"Ain't you heard, honey?" said the woman. "She left on the train this afternoon with that cattle buyer from Kansas City." The woman took hold of Monte's arm. "Come on, honey. Let's you and me have a drink."
"The hell with her," said Monte, pulling away. He strode back to his chair, stopping on the way to push in by the bar and acquire a beer mug full of whisky. He jammed his hat on his head, sat down, set the mug on the table in front of him, shoved a hand into a pants pocket. "Give me another stack," he said to the houseman. "I'm a-going to bust this game wide open."
Monte Walsh woke by degrees, regretting the necessity of waking at all. Something large and lumpy and sharp-cornered inside his head seemed to be trying to break out and a bruise along one temple throbbed in rhythm with the disturbance within. He moved a bit and became aware of assorted aches in other portions of his anatomy. His neck muscles complained but he raised his head anyway.
He lay on a built-in plank cot along the wall of a small solidly constructed room. Beyond his upturned boots he could see a doorway snugly holding a crisscross of stout iron bars. A small patch of sunlight on the floor by it spoke of a small high window behind him with its own bars.
"Nice morning."
Monte turned his head slowly. Six feet away on another plank cot along the opposite wall sat the tobacco-pouch cowhand, more stubbly-faced than before, more worn but not from trail riding, looking about as battered as Monte felt.
Monte groaned and sat up, swinging feet around to the floor. "Jugged," he said. "What in hell for?"
"I been studying on that," said the other. "I figure you got to thinking there was something funny about the game and couldn't make it out so you just started taking the whole place apart." He regarded Monte, round stubbly face solemn, interested. "You were doing right well. Till a batch of deputies came in."
"My oh my," murmured Monte, exploring his head with cautious fingers. "So that was me. How about you?"
"I was kind of thinking the same," said the other. "So somehow I kind of got mixed up in it too."
Monte finished his survey of injuries. A small wry grin showed on his bruised lips. "Must have been a humdinger," he said.
"From what I can remember," said the other.
"Monte Walsh." The plump man seated behind a wide solid table read the name aloud from a piece of paper in front of him and looked up over his spectacles. "Which one is he?"
"Shucks," said Monte, morose, rubbing his aching head. "You know me. I bought this shirt off you at your store a couple days ago."
"Not before in my official capacity," said the plump man. He swiveled his eyes over the spectacles toward the half dozen onlookers. "What did he have on him?"
"Not much," said a big man, coatless, with a badge pinned to his vest. "Thirteen dollars and thirty-five cents."
"H-m-m-m-m," said the plump man. "We will temper justice to the shorn lamb. Three dollars costs and ten dollars fine and we will return the thirty-five cents." He looked down again at the paper. "Chester Rollins."
"Chet," said the stubbly-faced square-built cowhand standing beside Monte.
"Chet or Chester," said the plump man. "We are not particular." He swiveled eyes again. "And what did he have?"
"Fifty-seven dollars," said the man with the badge.
"Remarkable," said the plump man.
"He ain't been in town long," said the man with the badge.
"Ah, yes," said the plump man. "So we can go the limit. Same costs and twenty-five dollars."
"Hey," said Monte, indignant. "That ain't fair."
"What has fair to do with it?" said the plump man. "The town and me, we can use the money and the law allows it."
"Goddamn it!" said Monte. "I say it ain't fair!"
"Quit it, Monte," said the plump man, forgetting to be official. "Want me to hold you in contempt?"
"Contempt!" yelled Monte. "I got plenty of that." He plunged forward and took hold of the table and heaved it up and over onto the plump man. He swung to face the onlookers converging now on him and plowed into them, sending one staggering from hunched shoulder, driving a knee into the stomach of another. He plowed on, fists flying.
"Ain't he something," said the big man with the badge, tapping him over the head from behind with a gun barrel.
Monte Walsh woke again by degrees, regretting again the necessity of waking at all. He lay on the same built-in cot in the same small room. One item was different. The crisscross of bars that was the door was wide open. Monte groaned and rolled his head sideways.
"You didn't do so well this time," said Chet Rollins from his perch on the other cot.
"I didn't see you doing a damn thing," said Monte.
"No," said Chet. "I figured what we had left wouldn't cover more'n one."
Monte sat up, swinging feet to floor, and looked at the open doorway.
"Why, yes," said Chet. "They didn't even wait on the second round. Figured to go ahead while you couldn't talk back. Went the limit on you too. But we can walk out anytime."
Monte conducted another exploration of his anatomy. Suddenly he looked up. "Hey," he said. "That must of about cleaned you out."
"Sure did," said Chet.
"Silly way to go throwing money around," said Monte.
"Ain't it," said Chet. "Come on. I still got a dollar, you got thirty-five cents coming, we can eat good on that."
Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins sat on the top rail of a small corral fronting on Front Street beside a livery stable. They sat in relaxed full-fed somnolence soaking up afternoon sun. Behind them in the corral lay two two-year-old tame buffalo, pride of the stable proprietor, equally somnolent in the dust except for skin twitchings to dislodge flies.
"I ought to be scratching around for a job," said Monte. "Needing food the way I do. Mighty regular." He took out a pocket-knife and began cleaning dirt from under his blunt fingernails. "I expect tomorrow'll do," he said.
One of the buffalo stood up, shook dust out of its shaggy pelt, lay down again. Chet extracted his stubby pipe from a pocket and began filling it from the small leather pouch.
"I could get me a job on the cars," he said. "Punching up cows with a shipment to Chicago. I've done that before."
"Chicago," said Monte. He snapped the knife shut and tucked it away. He took out a cigarette paper and reached a hand for the pouch. "My oh my," he murmured. "So you've been to the big city."
"Born there," said Chet. He lit a match and held it over the pipe and puffed smoke slowly, lazily. "That is, about forty miles out. My folks had a farm." He blew a small smoke ring and tried to flip the burnt-out match through it. "But I don't intend letting anybody know ever again I can handle a plow."
Monte struck his own match. Smoke from pipe and cigarette floated upward in the still air. The buffalo drowsed in the corral dust.
"That fat one with the watch chain," said Monte. "I bet he was the one."
"And that squint-eyed runt alongside you," said Chet. "They must of been working together. Feeding each other cards."
The other buffalo stood up, shook out dust, pawed more over itself, lay down again. Smoke floated lazily upward over the fence rails.
"Maybe I ought to go find them," said Monte. "I could do with knocking some heads together."
"Ain't you had enough?" said Chet. "Who'd bail you out this time?" He blew another small smoke ring and poked a finger through it. "Your own fault anyways. You ought to know better'n to sit in on a game like that."
"I seem to remember you sitting in," said Monte.
"Well, now, yes," said Chet, amiable, conve
rsational. "Now you mention it, so I was."
Two heavy wagons rumbled by, moving down the street toward the depot. Far off a train tootled. The proprietor of the livery stable came out and strolled down the street after the wagons.
"This town ain't been treating me right," said Monte. He held his cigarette stub out and inspected it carefully. "Not so you'd notice." He took a last drag on the stub and flicked it away as it burned his fingers. He licked the fingers and held them up to cool. "I'd sure like to scramble it some," he said.
