Monte Walsh

by Les Weil

  Warily the towheaded man advanced, jiggling loop to keep it open. The horse stood motionless, watching him. The man's arm flashed and the loop snapped out and the horse leaped sideways out of the corner and dropped big head and the loop slid off its shoulder and in the same rush of movement, a sudden silent fury unleashed, the horse wheeled and drove toward the man and reared to strike with slashing fore­hoofs. The man dodged, desperate, and ran toward rails, hauling in rope as he ran. The horse stopped, motionless again, watching him. Back against rails, he sorted out coils and began another loop. The tan of his young face had faded to a grayish tone and his hands shook.

  "Too damned smart," murmured Chet Rollins. "Watches the rope."

  Cautiously, reluctantly, the towheaded man stepped out again. He feinted with the loop and pulled back and as the horse leaped sideways threw to anticipate the leap and the loop leaving the faltering hand flattened in the air and fell useless and the horse, disregarding it, drove at him and he ran, frantic, and dropped to the ground and rolled under the bottom rail.

  "All right, Morrison," said the red-haired man. "I'll thank you for the money."

  Sullen, silent, the towheaded man, dragging rope, came around to the gate, took his saddle and bridle, went toward his horse.

  "Yessiree," said the red-haired man, hooking thumbs ' again. "That there horse is my meal ticket. I live right well off him. And why? Because there ain't nobody can handle him. I got forty dollars here that says there ain't a man can ride him. I got twenty more that says there ain't a man can even put a saddle on him."

  Along by the front rails Monte Walsh shifted weight from one worn old boot to the other and turned a bit toward Chet Rollins.

  "No," said Chet.

  "Shucks," said Monte. "We need some."

  Chet sighed. "Not that bad," he said.

  The red-haired man was talking again. "I'm disappointed," he said. "Might say plain shocked. I come down this way because I've heard tell that hereabouts there're men that fancy themselves in the saddle and ain't afraid of anything with four legs and hoofs. And what do I find? One boy with nothing but peach fuzz on his chin who flips his tail the moment that horse gets playful. Why, where I come from-"

  "Quit yapping, mister," said Monte Walsh. "I ain't got any cash. But in the next pen there I got a nice little dun. It ain't the company's. It's mine. There ain't a better cutting horse, this side the Cimarron. I'll just put him up against that money of yours."

  "The dun, eh," said the red-haired man, rising on toe tips to look toward the second corral. "How'm I supposed to know it's worth a damn?"

  "It's Slash Y," said the square-faced man. "That means something in the country south of here. If he says it's good, it's good."

  "What the hell," said the red-haired man. "It's a sure thing anyway."

  Monte turned away, striding to get his gear.

  "Mister," said Hat Henderson. "I can hoof it too if I have to. I got a little bay over there. He's pretty fair too. I'll just set him against forty more of your money that Monte rides that thing."

  "Ain't it hell," said Sunfish Perkins. "The rest of us ain't got nothing."

  Monte was back, heaving saddle and bridle on the gate, rope in hand.

  "Ees loco, Monte," said Dobe Chavez. "But no worry. We take of you good care. We take you back to the ranch. We dig the hole there."

  "Shucks," said Monte, sliding through briefly opened gate. "It's a horse, ain't it?"

  Across the corral the horse stood motionless, watching him. Its nostrils were flaring a bit, showing red-socketed. He stood motionless, studying it. He heard the gate behind him open.

  "Give me that," said Chet Rollins. "You got glue in the seat of your pants. But you ain't so good with a rope."

  Monte turned a little and looked at Chet. His lips shaped in a small wry smile. He held out the rope. "I knew you would," he said. "So did you."

  "Yes," said Chet, low-voiced, unsmiling. "Likely I did."

  "Hey," said the red-haired man. "No help allowed. That's the proposition."

  "Lookahere, mister," said Chet, raising voice. "You said a man couldn't do this, couldn't do that. You didn't say the same man had to do the roping and the riding."

  "Right," said the square-faced man. "That you didn't."

  "What the hell," said the red-haired man. "Can't say I like it but I'll take it. But only one man in there at a time."

  "Shucks," said Monte, coming back through the gate. "One'll do."

  Inside the corral Chet advanced, loop forming under stubby fingers, chunky body suddenly light on old worn boot soles, round stubbly face a serene moon of sun and wind­burnt rock. He feinted with the rope and the horse leaped sideways and the loop flashed out, low, skimming, reaching for the weaving forefeet, and the horse, seeing, reared and the loop dropped useless and the horse drove forward, lips drawing back from big yellowed teeth, and Chet waited and dodged ducking under the flailing forehoofs and ran to new position by the opposite rails, hauling in rope.

  The horse stood again, watching him, watching the rope. He feinted and the horse leaped and he feinted again, low, and the horse reared and he threw and the rope rose, loop opening free and over the big hammerhead. Quickly he hauled in to tighten it and the horse, feeling it grip on neck, not puffing back, not straining against it, drove forward along it at him. He crouched, waiting, hauling in rope, and as the horse reared with forelegs arching up to slash down he sent swirls flicking up the rope to wrap around them and dove from under and rolled over in the dust and came to feet running, rope held firm dragging around left hip. As it pulled taut, he heaved against it and the horse, forelegs pulled together, staggered and toppled on its side. Scrambling fast, he jumped in close and whipped the rope end between the caught forelegs above the twists and jumped back before snapping teeth in the big head lunging could reach and pulled the rope tight. "Hell of a place," he said. "No snubbing post." He dropped the rope end. Eyes intent on the horse struggling up with forelegs clamped together, he backed toward the front rails putting out a hand behind him.

  "Playful's the word, ain't it," said Monte, reaching between rails to put another coiled rope in the back-stretched hand.

  Out in the corral the horse raged, concentrating on the first rope, crow-hopping, loosening the twists, striving to shake them. Quick and light on old worn boot soles, Chet circled, second rope alive in stubby fingers. It flashed out, low, and he yanked up and it had the hindfeet. He ran again, heaving against left hip, and the horse went down again and he ran on, paying out rope, and stopped against side rails and passed the rope end around a post, pulled it tight, and flipped a fast knot. He turned, sweat beginning to streak dust on face, and approached the snorting squirming horse. Suddenly he dove in and dust rose and dust settled and the horse lay still, quivering, and he sat, wiping sweat from serene moon-rock face, on the big hammerhead.

  A bridle trailed through air and landed close. He reached with one foot and pulled it in. Methodically he unbuttoned his old flannel shirt and pulled it off, disclosing chest and back surprisingly white in contrast with tanned forearms and neck and face. Methodically he began to fold the shirt.

  "Twenty dollars coming up," said Monte Walsh.

  Antelope Junction buzzed considerably in the immediate vicinity of the first corral. The horse stood, silent, quivering, one rope clamping hindlegs and fastened to a side post, the other stretching the big head toward an opposite post. It was bridled, saddled. A folded old flannel shirt was tied around the head, over the bridle, over the eyes.

  "Plumb outlaw," said white-and-tan and generally dust­colored Chet, coming out through the gate. "It ain't going to be licked."

  "Shucks," said Monte, going in. "It's still a horse, ain't it?"

  He untied the rope holding the hindlegs, shook slack down, saw the loop loosen and fall around hoofs. The legs spread a bit, bracing, and the horse stood, quivering. He circled to opposite side and untied the other rope. The horse stood, listening, waiting. Holding this rope, he circled warily
in. He dropped the rope and leaped forward and in one smooth swift motion vaulted into saddle, legs swinging forward, boots smacking into stirrups, upper body arching over saddle horn to take the reins. And still the horse stood, knowing, waiting.

  He reached and loosened the loop around the neck, slipped reins through under it, flipped it off over the head. He worked at the folded shirt and with a sudden jerk flipped it away.

  The horse shook, shuddered, pent fury flooding through raw-boned sweat-streaked body. It plunged forward, head striking down, smashing against bit for headplay, and drove ahead, bucking, in partial circuit of the corral. It stopped, shuddering, seeming to shrink and bunch together within itself.

  "That ain't much," said Monte, serene in saddle.

  The horse exploded, rearing up, up, and driving down with a sideways wrenching motion, and Monte swayed with the harsh movement, head jerking at the wrench, hat flying off, but body firm in saddle, long legs locked against the heaving sides, and as the horse paused, gathering itself again, he raked from shoulders to flanks with his spurs. The horse squealed and leaped, coming down stiff-legged with jarring jolt, and on the instant reared, up, up, and drove down with the same sideways wrenching. Again and again it pounded, reared, pounded, reared, and Monte swayed and swung, head jerking, color draining out of face, blood beginning to dribble from nose.

  The horse stood, shuddering, bloody froth flecking its muzzle, eyes red-rimmed and bulging. Again it reared up, up, tottering on hindlegs, and deliberately toppled backwards and Monte, dropping reins, hands on its shoulders, swung feet out of stirrups and pushed out and away from under, rolling over and coming up fast, and as the horse struggled to its feet was in saddle again.

  "Ain't he a daisy," said Sunfish Perkins, smacking hand on top rail.

  The horse reared again, up, up, tottering, and Monte, panting hard now, had gun out. He struck the barrel down be­tween the big ears and it thudded dully on bone and the horse dropped to four feet again, dazed, shaking big head.

  "I can play rough too," gasped Monte, slipping gun back in holster.

  The horse plunged ahead, bucking, and flung itself in reckless lunge sideways against rails to crush him against them, but Monte had right foot out of stirrup, swinging back and up and over, and took the jolt standing in left stirrup and as the horse staggered out, catching balance, he was back in saddle, raking deep with spurs.

  The horse plowed out into the center, smashing head against bit, and stopped and swung head up and around, jaws open, striking for Monte's left leg. Instantly old boot in heavy stirrup swung and crashed full into the reaching jaws and the horse screamed and jerked head around straight, high, and drove, blind with rage, unseeing, unheeding, forward in brute furious rush into the side corral fence. Its chest struck a post and this cracked and split and rails bent and broke and Monte, pushing out and back from the saddle, landed sprawling and the horse sank quivering then still over the wreckage of the fence. Dust settled over the corral, over the splintered fence, over the body of the horse, over Monte Walsh standing with hands holding to a top rail of unbroken fence, head dropped between them, breath coming in gasps, watching small drops of blood drip from his nose down by his feet.

  "God a'mighty!" said the red-haired man. "The son of a bitch killed my horse. All bets off!"

  "Mister," said Hat Henderson, stepping close, mild, deceptively mild. "I say he rode him."

  "You're damn right he did," said Chet Rollins, opening gate and going through.

  Sunfish Perkins and Dobe Chavez moved up, flanking Hat.

  "Well, well," said the square-faced man, slow smile spreading. He looked at them then at the red-haired man. "There's no votes in this. I say the same."

  Out in the corral Chet placed Monte's hat on Monte's head, shook dust out of his own shirt, began to pull it on.

  "Shucks," said Monte, turning to lean back against rails, looking at Chet. His lips shaped in a small wry grin. "We're lucky. A couple more of those goddamned twists and he'd of shook me sure."

  "Maybe," said Chet, picking up a rope and beginning to coil it. Monte moved out, took the other.

  "Hey, you two," said Hat Henderson, stuffing money in a pocket. "We're through playing games. Till later anyway. We got work coming up. We got to get that last pen ready. The train just tootled down the line."

  * * *

  Antelope Junction, deceptive in deepening dusk, had an almost cheerful appearance. Patches of yellow light from windows seemed to beckon, welcome, in the darkening immensity of the big land under the unbelievably deep sky. The trail crew of the Slash Y sat on rickety chairs around one of the tables in the front room of ROOMS & EATS intent on second rounds of Biggest Beefsteaks West of Boston. At another table across the room sat the man in the big white hat, staring at emptied plate and coffee mug. The hat was pushed back at a jaunty angle. He wore a very neat clean silk scarf neatly knotted around his throat. A diamond stickpin glittered in this. Prosperity exuded from him. He drummed gently with fingers on the table, looked across at the steadily eating crew, drummed again.

  "This stuff," said Monte, "tastes like they run it to death then stomped it."

  "Better'n our own jerky and biscuits," said Chet, solemnly chewing.

  The greasy-aproned proprietor came through an inner doorway and laid a pie already cut into five approximately equal pieces on the table. "You want any more," he said, "you pay again." He disappeared back through the doorway.

  "Those cows now," said Monte.

  "Bulls," said Chet.

  "Cows," said Monte.

  Jaws chewed in slowing beginning-to-be-satisfied rhythm. "What about 'em?" said Sunfish.

  "Why, shucks," said Monte. "They don't look like much to me. Built more like hawgs 'n cows. They come out of that car like tame puppydogs."

  "Barnyard stuff," said Hat. "They been used to being handled and pushed around. Ain't even feeling the itch yet. Wait'll they get some growth and been out on the range a while. They're good stuff. Not all horns 'n bone. They put on plenty meat. It won't be long before they'll be getting us mighty fat sassy calves."

  Jaws chewed in even slower rhythm as plates emptied.

  Across the room the man in the white hat stood up. "I'm a man of decision," he said to the universe in general about him. He came across the room, dragging his chair. "Mind if I join you?" he said.

  "We ain't particular," said Hat.

  "Fine," said the man. "And dandy." He pushed the chair in between Monte and Chet, its back to the table, and spraddled it, folding hands atop its back. "The name," he said, "is Johnson. Oscar J. Johnson."

  Hat waved a fork in circuit of the table. "Slash Y," he said, taking the pie tin and scooping one of the pieces onto his plate.

  "A fine brand," said the man. "I've heard it mentioned back in Kansas City." He turned his head a bit to look at Monte. "I hope you will permit me, sir, to state that I like your style. I repeat it. I like your style."

  "Shucks," said Monte, reaching for the pie. "You can jabber that way all you want."

  "Fine," said the man. "And jim dandy. Permit me to explain. What do the folks back east think of when they think of a cowboy? You, my boy. You. Youngish but not a kid. Tall. Lean. Nice shoulders. Thin hips. Devil-may-care bring­on-your-grizzlies look on your face. Sit a horse like you were born there and have never been off. That's what they think of. Precisely."

  "My oh my," murmured Monte around mouthful of pie. "And I don't even carry a mirror. What're you selling?"

  "Selling?" said the man, offended. He chuckled, overlook­ing the offense. "Well, yes, in a way you might say I'm selling. Only what I'm selling won't cost you a cent. The other way around. I'm offering you something, free gratis. Opportunity.

  A job."

  "I got one," said Monte, reaching for crumbs in the pie tin. "Forty a month and all I can eat and plenty chances to break my neck."

  "Not like this one," said the man. "This is something special." He hitched his chair more toward Monte. "Look. I'll lay it on
the line. I'm partner in a show. One of these wild west things. They're mighty popular back east. We're not up to Bill Cody's of course but we do all right. Booked solid in a few weeks up through Illinois, Indianny, all through the corn country. Probably go into Chicago. You know how it is. Some riding, some roping, hold up a stagecoach, bang away at some Indians, give the town folks some shivers. Bronco­busting goes big. That's for you. Nothing like that brute out there today of course. Just good broncs that'll buck enough to make it look good. It's worth fifty a week."

  "We'll just slide out of this game," said Hat, pushing back his chair, rising, three others with him. "It's your hand, Monte. See you at Johnny's." He disappeared out the front door, the others following.

  "Fifty a week," murmured Monte, licking crumbs off fingers. "Just to loaf a little in a saddle."

  "And expenses," said the man. "Here, have a cigar." Deftly he produced a match, scratched it on the underside of the table, held it out. "The way to live," he said. "Travel. See all the good towns. Money in your pocket. People cheering, shouting at you doing what you can do better'n a one of them without even working up a sweat. Come back here-abouts to treat old friends between seasons."

  "M-m-m-m," murmured Monte, watching smoke trail in two thin streamers from his nose.

  "Of course," said the man, "we'll dress you up some. You know, all the trimmings."

  Monte looked steadily at him.

  "All right, all right," said the man. "Not too fancy. You got the look anyway." He produced another cigar, lit it, studied Monte through smoke. He looked away. "And women," he said. "Yes, sir, one thing I've noticed is women back through those towns sure do go for a man in boots and spurs and big hat. Specially when they've seen him up there cool and easy aboard a bucking horse."

  "You don't say," murmured Monte, inspecting a blunt fingernail.

  "I do say," said the man. "It'd bug your eyes to see them flocking around our boys after a show." He stood up. "You just think it over. Opportunity. A chance like this doesn't come walking along every day. I'll leave it like this: I'm suffering on something that passes for a bed here tonight because I'm meeting a man tomorrow. Then I'll be taking the train out. If I see you around in the morning, I'll know you're going with me. At my expense of course. There'll be plenty time for us to get acquainted waiting for that train." He smiled, disclosing expensive gold fillings, waved his cigar and disappeared through an inner doorway.