Monte Walsh

by Les Weil

  Monte Walsh uncoiled upward, slipping the gun back in its holster. He watched the man disappear with a soft swish of the screen door. A small wry disgusted grin showed on his lips. "All right, Chet," he said. "Let's get going." He too started for the door.

  "Mister Walsh." Miss Hazel's voice caught him, stopped him. It was a soft somewhat shaky appealing voice. "Mister Walsh. Monte. I'll-I'll be through here soon. If you want to, you can ... well, you can walk me home."

  Monte Walsh turned, surprise on his face sliding into slow wide smile. He stepped back to his stool and eased down. "Miss Hazel," he said. "You ain't ever been as pretty as you are this minute. Could I have another cup of coffee while I wait?"

  Over on his stool Chet Rollins sighed. He laid a fifty-cent piece on the counter. "Two suppers, a quarter each," he said to no one in particular. He slid around and off the stool, picked the roll of mail from the floor beside it, and ambled along the counter. He slapped Monte on a shoulder. "See?" he said. "I was right. But you better be back by sunup." He ambled to the door.

  Outside, slow, unhurried, he approached the thick-necked black, tied the roll of mail by the saddle-whangs behind the cantle, tightened the cinch, untied the lead rope, slipped the bridle over the black's head. Swinging up, he moved off down the street, stopped by the patches of light from over and under the swinging doors of the first of Harmony's four saloons, dismounted and ambled inside. In something less than four minutes he ambled out again, swung up, and moved back along the street, past the small adobe building, on out of town.

  Under the clean deep night sky of the big land, a few miles out of town, a lonely moving shape in the soft glow of a half­moon, one cow pony jogged steadily along the wagon trace. Off in the distances a coyote called, mournful, aching, appealing. Another answered, deep-throated, eager. "Well, well," muttered Chet Rollins. "Everybody seems to be doing it."

  The black perked ears and cocked its head to ove side. Chet Rollins pulled rein and sat still in saddle. Far back along the wagon trace hoofs sounded. Chet cocked his own head, listening. He caught the beat. "Now that," he muttered, "is downright peculiar. Can't have been much more'n half an hour." He nudged the black forward again, looped reins over the horn, pulled out the stubby pipe and the little pouch and began filling the pipe.

  Slow puffs of smoke drifted back as the black jogged along. Out of the long stretches behind, stirring dust faintly luminous in the moonlight, came the leggy dun. It pounded up alongside and slowed to the same easy amble.

  "All right," said Chet at last. "I suppose I got to ask questions. What happened?"

  "That female," said Monte. "Why, she's downright dangerous."

  A nighthawk, swift after some invisible insect, swooped close and the dun, still heated some from the gallop, took the chance to skip sideways and dance a bit. "Quit it," said Monte, clamping down with reins. He moved in close again. "Why, yes," he said. "We hadn't more'n got to her folks' place and sitting on that bench by that scrawny old tree they have and she was cuddling close mighty cozy and right away she begins talking about a cute little cottage with roses growing by the door and chickens scratching around out back."

  Off in the distances the first coyote called again and the other answered, much closer now to the first. "Damn racket," said Monte. He slapped one hand on his saddle horn. "Yes," he said. "That female's got marriage on her mind. And I sure ain't."

  The two cow ponies jogged along in steady unvarying rhythm. Monte nudged the dun closer to the black and reached to take the pouch from Chet's pocket. His hand stopped moving. He had caught sight of something showing just above the leather of Chet's gunbelt, something silvery and turquoise-studded in the moonlight. He rocked back in his saddle.

  "Shucks," said Chet. "While you were milling around getting ready for your show-off stunt with that bear, I found me a sucker."

  The two cow ponies jogged along. Monte sat stiff in the saddle, head turned, looking steadily at Chet.

  "Yep," said Chet at last. "I figured one fool was enough. I bet on the bear."

  Ahead, bunched across the wagon trace, a group of steers blocked the way. The two cow ponies jogged straight ahead, ignoring them, and the steers, waiting till the last second, snorted in annoyance and scattered to let them through. "Aw, shucks," said Monte, nudging the dun closer again and taking the pouch. "I guess you could say in a way that does sort of keep it in the family."

  The two cow ponies ambled easily along, two sturdy companionable shapes in the dim vastness of the big land. Smoke from a cigarette and a stubby pipe drifted back behind them, mingling, indistinguishable in the soft night air.

  * * *

  "Yeah, I hear they're doing that over at the X I T. Giving the boys Sundays off. But I reckon they don't if there's any trouble brewing out on the range. Trouble don't pay no attention to Sundays. The way Cal's always let us do is if there ain't much work piled up we loaf around some. Take it a bit easier I mean. Don't start anything, that is. Just finish up anything needs finishing an' loaf around. Don't do any harm, Cal always says, to slow down ev'ry seventh day an' let what souls we got air out some. Good time to catch up on such things as trimming hair crops an' patching gear an' the like.

  "Speaking of Sundays reminds me of the time there was a preacher in town holding a revival meeting. Sunfish has leanings that way sometimes an' he talked us all into going. Went there mild as soda pop promising each other not to go messing things up any. Preacher was a long thin drink of water with a face like a prune that looked like he didn't enjoy anything in living. He unlimbers his tonsils an' starts talking. Can he talk? Why, words come out of him so fast you could scarce catch a-holt of 'em. Hell an' damnation man. Sin on his mind mighty heavy. Seems like anything anybody might want to do for a little fun is a sin to him. Takes it for granted we're all so black with sin likely we could never be scrubbed clean. Kind of insulting the way he laid it on to us. But I reckon a preacher thinks he's got a license to waggle his tongue any way he feels like doing. Worst sin of all, he figures, is not going to church reg'lar an' bowing down mighty low an' hopping to do whatever a preacher like him says. Man who doesn't, he claims while waving his arms around, is going to hell sure an' roast in everlasting damnation till the final trumpet blows. An' after. He's throwing fire an' brimstone around mighty free. Acts like he can give a ticket to the hot place to anyone he feels like any time. Looking at us lost souls like it's meant special for us. Works his­self up a good sweat. When he figures he's got us buflaloed an' backed into a pen an' ready to be branded his brand, he says: Anyone here who still intends to go to hell, stand up and be counted among the damned.

  "That's when Monte stands up. If what you been blatting is true, he says, then that's right where I'm a-going an' I'm a­going there at a right good clip. An' Chet stands up alongside him an' Chet says: You ain't gone anywheres yet, Monte, that I ain't been right with you, so I reckon I'll keep you comp'ny. An' Powder stands up along the other side of him an' Powder has his gun out an' he's holding it kind of careless in one hand an' he looks around an' he says: There's plenty more here heading in the same direction an' if they ain't got the nerve to stand up an' say so they'll be getting there a lot sooner'n they been expecting.

  "About then most ev'rybody's standing up. But they ain't waiting to be counted. They're stampeding for the way out."

  Powder Kent

  1888

  FIVE TIMES snow fell that winter even out on the lower levels and each time the cold spell held and the snow lingered on the ground, melting in, with little runoff, and in the spring the grasses freshened early and as the season progressed they thickened and topped out strong, keeping well ahead of the stock roaming the Slash Y range. The horses fleshed, developing grass-bellies that would slim down soon with work, and were spunky under saddles. The cattle fattened fast, losing the gaunt-flanked look of winter, and the new calves stood sturdy by their mothers and frolicked in their sudden stiff­legged rocking spurts with the vitality of new life in a good year.

 
Then the summer sun beat down and no rain fell, not even the usual few but torrential thunderstorms of midsummer, and the grasses turned brown and gold, rippling in the dry winds, curing early on the stem, good feed still but no longer freshening, growing, renewing, and the men of the Slash Y riding the range were careful with matches and sparing with campfires and kicked dirt over even apparently dead ashes before moving on.

  It was a good year turning bad. And worse was to come.

  * * *

  Two strange men came riding in to the ranch headquarters. They came out of the great distances west and south and their meager worn gear spoke of Arizona, of the hard lonely hiding country beyond the Mogollon rim. They came on two lean wire-tough long-traveling horses and they led two more of the same breed. One of the men was thick-set, big-armed, with big features and undershot jaw, and a kind of insolence or a contempt or anger at the world in general showed in his quick nervous actions and his manner of jerking his head as he talked. The other was loose-limbed, slack-jawed, shambling in movement even in the saddle, tagging always a bit behind.

  They left their horses by the small corral and walked over by the veranda of the old adobe house where Cal Brennan sat in the mouse-chewed remnants of an ancient leather­covered armchair soaking in afternoon sun, absurdly high­curved-heel boots on the floor beside him, old eyes missing nothing about his visitors and their gear and their horses. They exchanged the usual amenities with him about the weather and the condition of the country, then the thickset man pushed his point. "Saw some mustangs down in them lower hills," he said. "Understand that's part of your range. Now they ain't much but we ain't partic'lar these days. Mind if we camp there a while an' try runnin' 'em?"

  Cal rubbed a hand down one cheek and over around his chin. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I do. I reckon I do mind."

  "What for?" said the thickset man, jerking his head. "They ain't doin' you no good."

  "They ain't hurtin' me any," said Cal. "An' I happen to know there ain't enough broomtails down that way to be worth your while. You get to chasin' an' find that out an' our own stock might get to lookin' kind of temptin' to you."

  "You callin' anybody anythin'?" said the thickset man, jerking his head again.

  "Not so as you'd notice," said Cal. "Just thinkin' of what could happen."

  "Stingy," said the loose-limbed man.

  "You can call it that if you've a mind to," said Cal. "I call it bein' sensible. Lookin' ahead an' avoidin' trouble. For you as well as me. You two're welcome to stick around for supper an bed down here. In the mornin' whyn't you head for the Domingo reservation. More wild ones over that way an' likely you could make a deal."

  "We ain't needin' no advice from the likes of you," said the thickset man. "Nor nothin' else neither." He turned away and the loose-limbed man tagged him.

  They rode off into the distances west and south and they stopped by one of the Slash Y low round water tanks with windmill beside it and watered their horses and filled their canteens and the thickset man scanned the territory around and took a small running iron from the blanket roll behind his saddle and hammered at the side of the tank, low down, until he had punched a hole and the two of them stood for a moment watching water run out to soak into the dry ground.

  They mounted and rode on, leading the two extra horses, and dusk took them just over the long ridge fronting the mountains to the west and they made a quick dry camp in a small hollow screened by junipers and picketed their horses and ate sparingly of the meager supply of food in their saddlebags and lay down in blankets with saddles for pillows.

  * * *

  At about the same time, farther to the west, on the far side of the mountains, Powder Kent easy in saddle aboard a rough-built sturdy roan, coming back to the ranch after a three-day jaunt to testify as a witness at a minor nuisance of a trial that had been transferred to Rio Abajo, worked his way up a trail twisting toward a pass through the upper peaks. In the deepening dusk he stopped where a small spring trickled out of rock and let the roan drink and unsaddled and picketed it and built a small fire. He took a can of beans from his saddlebag and with the opener blade of his pocketknife neatly removed the top. Carefully he set the can close in by the fire and pushed it further in with a small stick. Pulling out another blade of the knife, he went to work on the stick, whittling one end flat. Using two other sticks he removed the can from the fire and sat down, ankles crossed out in front with the can between his legs, and dipped the flattened end of the first stick into the can. Slowly, leisurely, he emptied the can. He rose and went to the spring and lay flat and drank. He came back by the fire and carefully pushed what remained of it in toward the center and unrolled his blanket and spread it out. He stood, quiet, listening into the great clean silence all around him broken only by the soft sigh of wind in the tops of the few pines nearby. Out of old habit his right hand moved and his worn gun was in the hand and he spun the cylinder, peering at it. Five shells. He set the cylinder so that the hammer bore on the empty chamber and slipped the gun back into its worn holster at his side. He lay down on one half of the blanket and set his hat on the ground and pulled the other half of the blanket over him.

  * * *

  Morning like any other morning of the lazy time of year, clear and crisp and warming fast as the sun rose, and the men of the Slash Y were lingering in the cookhouse over a last round of coffee, in no hurry to start the day's work. It was Sugar Wyman who stepped out along the path to the outhouse and came back, longstriding, to stand in the doorway.

  "I kind of hate to go breakin' up this little party," he said, "but it might int'rest you-all to have a look out here." His voice was quiet, almost matter of fact, but foreman Hat Henderson was up and striding toward the door before he had finished. Sugar stepped back out, leading past a corner of the cookhouse. He pointed into the great distances west and south.

  Far out where rolling grassland set its own horizon against the background of the long ridge fronting the mountains a light gray cloud hugged the ground, sending streamers floating upward. Darker streaks showed in it, twisting, rising, and the whole reached out, stretching, blotting ever more of the low horizon.

  Smoke. Smoke rising from a mile-wide front, advancing, and spreading, spreading.

  Activity swarmed in and about the long low barn and the corrals and the voice of Hat Henderson boomed through it. "Monte. An' you Chet. Grab a couple butcher knives an' a hatchet an' snap out there an' get a drag ready . . . Dally, harness the team ... Sunfish, pile some barrels on the wagon an' fill 'em with water an' throw in all the bags an' shovels you can find . . . Dobe, start rigging a string of extra hosses an' take 'em on out . . . Sugar, you an' Joe take the buckboard an' swing around backside of it. Wind's blowing this way so likely it ain't doing too much there ..:'

  * * *

  Far out on the rolling grassland cattle moved in frightened spurts, gathering in bunches, stopping to look back and moving away again. The small ground-dwelling life of the land scurried through the low growth. The fire crackled on a wider front now, consuming the dry grasses, feeding on its own draft, advancing under the whip of the wind eastward at an eight-mile pace. Smoke rolled ahead of it in gusts and coiled back, twisting, rising, dark and acrid where the flames took patches of small brush.

  Well in front and back some from the near end of the lead line of fire Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins, moving silently, swiftly, worked on the carcass of a yearling steer just dropped with a bullet in its brain. Slashing deep with knives and using a hatchet on the neck vertebrae, they cut off the head and heaved this aside. Slashing deep again, they ripped open the carcass, slicing it the long way almost in half, and heaved again to spread-eagle it out, flesh- and gut-side down. Striding to their horses thirty feet away, ground-reined, waiting, nervous but waiting, they grabbed ropes and tied these to saddle horns and paid them out back to the carcass.

  "Take the outside," said Monte. "And don't try giving me no argument."

  Bending low, they tied the ropes to a forefoot an
d a hind­foot. Striding again to the horses, they swung up and moved away, dragging the spread-out bloody carcass, heading straight for the lead line of fire.

  A quarter mile behind them a big flatbed low-sided wagon swayed and careened forward, husky young draft team digging hoofs deep and lunging into harness, Cal Brennan on the seat with the reins, saddles and empty burlap bags and shovels and three big barrels bouncing on the bed, Hat Henderson and Dally Johnson and Sunfish Perkins scrambling for footing among them and to steady the barrels. A hundred yards farther behind Dobe Chavez plugged grimly along in saddle, 'cursing softly in Spanish, struggling to keep a dozen skittish cow ponies, neck-roped together in a line, following him at a fair trot.

  * * *

  Westward, mile after mile, over the charred land, on over the long ridge and broken land and small valleys beyond, on up the slopes of the mountains, Powder Kent on a rough­built sturdy roan, whistling cheerfully, ambled along the trail leading down from the pass through the upper peaks. He rounded a huge shoulder of rock and the whistling stopped and with it the roan pulled to a sudden halt. Vast and seeming limitless the big land swept away from beneath him, distance merging into distance to be lost at last beyond the reach of vision toward Texas. Down and out from the lower ridge, northward some to his left, small across the miles, he saw a great wedge-shaped scar of charred land where fire had fanned forward, widening, and smoke rising from the far front of it. Squinting into the morning sun, he could make out tiny figures, seen in snatches as the smoke shifted, incredibly small in the vastness, moving along the far front, and two more well back along the left edge of the wedge where smoke rose only in thin wisps.