Monte Walsh

by Les Weil

  Sonny Jacobs sat motionless in his shadow. "That's Monte," he murmured. "Yessiree, that's him all right. I've seen 'em all on the bigtime and there never was a man like Monte on a hoss." He watched them jog to the small corral and dismount and one of them stride off toward the ranch house and the others lead the horses inside. He turned his head slightly to see the one man jump on the veranda of the house, hurrying, and open the door and disappear inside. "Must be Morris," he murmured. He turned his head slightly again to watch the others. "Why, there's Sugar, though he sure has been putting on weight ... And Dally hiding behind a mustache . . . And Old Red Hawkins that use to be Box 4.. And who'd of thought it, Short-Hair Hale that was barbering in town when I left . . . Damned if that young one don't look like Gonzales's boy Juan making out to be a man."

  Sonny sat motionless in his shadow and listened to voices from the corral. "Where'd that hoss drop from?" "Fatter'n a barrel, what's the brand?" "T Bar J." "G'wan, never heard of it." "Hey look at that saddle." "Fool stunt, weightin' down a hoss with all that silver." "Must be a dude loose somewheres."

  Sonny grinned lazily to himself and watched them leave the corral and head in his direction. A voice lifted among them. "Oh, no! Look at 'im sittin' there! It ain't nothin' but a homely fat hunk of wolf bait!" They converged on him and he was yanked up from the bench and batted about and insults, raucous and ribald, assailed his ears.

  "Whew-w-w-w," said Sonny, pulling loose, holding his nose. "I should of stayed away. What's that stink? I can't stand it. Don't tell me. It can't be. It ain't "

  "Yeah," said Dally Johnson, dry, disgusted. "The company's tryin' some this year."

  "Bat his brains out," suggested Old Red Hawkins. "We scrubbed good out at the tank."

  "Ba-a-a-a-a-a," chortled Sonny, slapping his sides, watching the muscles tighten along Monte Walsh's jaw, a speculative glint rise in Monte's eyes.

  "Know why?" said Sugar Wyman. "Because there's money in 'em. That's the one thing seems to count nowadays. You tell 'im, Juan. You been to school too."

  "The sheep are a two-crop stock," said young Juan Gonzales. "The lambs ... and the wool."

  "Ba-a-a-a-a," chortled Sonny.

  "Quit it," said Sugar, a flush climbing up his face. "What the hell difference? Things ain't what they used to be."

  "Ba-a-a-a-a," chortled Sonny. "Ain't that a lamb I hear blatting? You better be hopping, Monte, and playing nursemaid."

  "Asking, plain asking," said Monte Walsh. He hurtled into Sonny and carried him over and down. Dust rose as they rolled, hammering, grunting and heaving, now one on top, now the other. The dust settled some and Sonny lay on his belly and Monte sat astride him, rubbing his face in the dirt.

  Monte stopped, holding Sonny's head up with hand fixed in his hair. "You hear any blatting?" he said.

  "Only ... my own," spluttered Sonny, cheerfully, happily, spitting out dust. "I see ... some things ... ain't changed."

  * * *

  Shadow lay over the big land. To the west the sun dropped below the rim of the mountains. There would be light for an hour and more but the golden glow was gone. Only the last brief legacy remained, deepening like memory into distance.

  Seven men sat or lay about the old bunkhouse in the slow semi-somnolent state of a good start on the digestion of a good meal.

  Sonny Jacobs moved on his chair, quietly letting his belt out another notch. "Morris don't eat with you," he said. "Would you?" said Dally Johnson, looking up from a bridle he was fitting with a new chin strap. "Would you with a wife an' kid right handy?"

  "That problem's missed me," said Sonny.

  "Morris is all right," said Old Red Hawkins from his bunk.

  "Talks like a goddamn book an' carries his nose way up there somewheres but something has to be done an' he'll climb down an' get his hands dirty like most anybody."

  "I got no complaint," said Short-Hair Hale from the old table where he was playing solitaire with a dog-eared deck of cards. "He gave me a job when I went on the wagon and with the shakes I had wasn't worth much."

  "Maybe you're thinkin' you're worth somethin' now," said Dally.

  "Morris'll do," said Sugar Wyman from his chair. "For the way things are now. He gets by. With us pushin' him. He's learnin'. But he sure ain't no Cal Brennan."

  "Who in hell would be?" said Dally.

  Silence in the old bunkhouse.

  "How is Cal?" said Sonny gently.

  "So blinkin' old it hurts to see it," said Dally. "But still Cal. On the talkin' an' bitin' end of him anyways. Feet gave out on him a few years back. He's sittin' around in town not able even to hobble any. Reckon it was them damn boots he used to wear. Uses a wheelchair now."

  "He's still got all his own teeth," said Sugar. "Which you sure ain't."

  "Yeah," said Dally. "His teeth. Sunfish's there too, takin' care of him. You remember Sunfish. Hell, nobody'd ever forget him. They got a saddle'n harness shop for somethin' to be doin'. Cal does the thinkin' an' Sunfish does the clerkin' an' they play checkers like it was a regular war atween 'em when there ain't anythin' else doin'."

  Silence in the old bunkhouse except for the soft swish of cards.

  "Hey, Juan," said Dally. "Trot over to the barn an' rout out one of them other mattresses. Sonny here'll be needin' it."

  "Might make it two," said Old Red. "He looks kind of soft to me."

  "Check them fool chickens while you're out," said Sugar.

  "Stay away from that corral," came the voice of Monte Walsh from his bunk. "I'll tend to the horses later."

  Young Juan Gonzales rose from his chair and disappeared out the doorway.

  "I saw Hat up in Denver last week, said Sonny. "Same old Hat. Near broke my hand. Made me promise to tell what's doing down here if I go back through. He was all fancied up like for a wedding or a funeral but he claimed that's his regular wear these days."

  "How's he doin'?" said Sugar.

  "Fine. Just fine. Commission buyer at the stockyards. Told me he was thinking of

  putting money into a restaurant."

  "Sounds like him," said Sugar, "He was talways 'keepin' busy, a workin' fool. An' expected the rest of us to keep right up with him."

  "Which I'm free to remark we did," said Dally. "Which I kind of admit it took some doin' now an' again. I miss those days."

  Silence in the old bunkhouse except for the soft tread of young Juan returning with a rolled mattress in his arms and a pillow over one shoulder. He laid these on one of the empty bunks and took a blanket from a high shelf over the wooden pegs at one end of the room and spread this over them. He sat again on his chair, silent, respectful, content to be there and to listen.

  "I kind of thought," said Sonny, "Hat'd be taking over here when Cal left."

  "So did he," said Sugar. "An' the same for the rest of us."

  "Yeah," said Dally. "The same. But the comp'ny thought diff'rent. Cal made the wires hot but it wasn't no use. They sent in this Morris fresh out of some cow college an' a year or two in the comp'ny offices an' it was plumb bad for a while. But I reckon Hat he was beginnin' to age some an' he-"

  "Like the rest of us," said Sugar.

  "Yeah. The rest of us. I reckon you know, Sonny, how when Hat got real mad which lucky wasn't more'n every other year or so everybody able to move within about ten mile went into hidin'. Sure you do, seein' as how oncet you wasn't out of the way fast enough an' he threw you clean over a corral fence. Well, along this time things kept happenin' an' we expected Hat to blow an' maybe kick this Morris clean back to Chicago an' all he did was chew on his month till it was raw most of the time. I reckon maybe Cal'd been askin' him to hold on an' see it through. You know how it was, he'd do about anythin' for Cal. Then one day it was some little thing like it always was, little things addin' up an' addin' up, an' Hat he picked up a shovel, near a new one too, an' he snapped that hick'ry handle over his knee an' threw the pieces away an' he picked up this Morris an' tucked him under one arm all shoutin' an' thrashing aroun' an' carted him up to
the house there an' plunked him in the chair by Cal's old desk an' he said: `Figure my time an' figure it fast.'"

  "Wasn't twenty minutes," said Sugar, "before Hat was headin' out of here."

  "Yeah. Headin' out. Rest of us, soon as we knew, was packin' to leave too, those of us still aroun', when I guess Hat he'd stopped in town because Cal he come larrupin' out here in a buggy. He talked an' he talked an' he said he couldn't blame Hat too much but he wasn't goin' to have the rest of us runnin' out on his old brand just because the goin' was rough."

  "So we stayed," said Sugar.

  "Yeah. We stayed. Cal saw this Morris standin' on the porch over there chewin' his fingers an' he swung the buggy over there an' he said: 'Git in.' They drove off an' I expect Cal talked plenty more because when this Morris come back on a hoss he borrowed in town he looked like he'd been wrung out some. He moped aroun' the house a day or two an' one mornin' he come out here talkin' almost like a man and it's been some better since."

  Silence in the old bunkhouse. Old Red pushed up from his hunk and slid a chair in by the table and bent to it. "Whittle that deck down," he said to Short-Hair Hale, "an' start dealing euchre."

  "Did Dobe stay?" said Sonny.

  "Certain he stayed," said Sugar. "You ever know Dobe to pull out of anythin' rough? He stayed till things was better. But he had other fish to fry."

  "Yeah," said Dally. "Other fish. You tell him, Juan. He's your kin."

  "El Senor Chavez," said young Juan grinning, "he is marrird to my father's sister. He is living in Carrizozo. He is deputy sheriff. He is-"

  "You ought to see 'im, Sonny," said Sugar. "He's fatted till that old gunbelt won't even go around him any more. Sticks the gun in his pants when he thinks he might need it. Waxes his mustache an' dresses pretty. Damn politician, that's what he is. You ought to see 'im, jollyin' the men, pattin' the women, kissin' the babies. He's running for sheriff hisself this year. Old one's retirin'."

  "He'll win too," came the voice of Monte Walsh from his bunk. "And make the best goddamned sheriff they ever had over that way."

  Silence in the old bunkhouse, broken only by the soft swish of cards and Old Red's low rumble: "Pick it up, you short-haired jackass. This'll be my point."

  Sonny Jacobs moved on his chair, rolling a cigarette and scratching a match to light it. He looked at the bunk where Monte Walsh lay flat, staring up at the ceiling.

  Sonny looked away. "Chet," he said. "Chet Rollins. I thought sure he'd be here."

  "Ain't you heard?" said Daily. "Thought you came through town."

  "No," said Sonny. "I come down by Vegas and Anton Chico. I'm heading for the old Diamond to see what's been happening there."

  "You won't find much," said Sugar. "It's broke up. Half a dozen small ranches now. It's broke up."

  "Yeah," said Dally. "Broke up. Like we're doin'."

  Silence in the old bunkhouse. "Made it," said Old Red softly. "Now if I just euchre you oncet, I'm out."

  "In town," said Sonny.

  "Why, yes," said Sugar. "If you'd been there an' looked sharp, you'd of seen it. Holloway's livery stable."

  "If I wasn't blind," said Sonny. "It's been there long as I can remember."

  "Sure it has," said Sugar. "But it's wearin' a new sign. Holloway an' Rollins."

  "Yeah," said Daily. "An' Rollins. Chet's bought into it. Did some fancy hoss-tradin' an' worked a deal. Holloway's retirin' an' Chet's part owner an' manager."

  "Two months ago," said Sugar. "An' for quite a time before that he was almighty poor comp'ny aroun' here. Saving his money. Nursin' every goddamned nickel. Always figurin' an' figurin' an' moonin' aroun' like a silly kid that ain't never saw a skirt. . :'

  "Ha!" said Sonny. "So that's it."

  "Yeah," said Dally. "That's it. He's gettin' married. Next week. You know her. Old Man Engle's daughter, that has the hotel in town."

  "No," said Sonny. "Not Mary Engle? Chet? And Mary Engle? Why, the last I knew she was shooing the rest of us aside like flies and Monte had the inside track."

  "That was when she was young an' giddy," said Dally. "You might say didn't know no better. She's growed up now. Oh my lordy yes, she's growed up now. Had a couple years back east with relatives somewheres and come home with notions. Quite a lady. Why, a man wouldn't dare spit anywheres near her. Come back an' she knew what she wanted. Looked around 'n picked Chet. He didn't have a chance. You know how it is, them that ain't chased women much, when they go, they go. Chet sure went. You know Monte, he can't stay away from anythin' in skirts an' he was sniffin' around again and she-"

  "Shucks," said Sugar. "Monte ain't the marryin' kind."

  "Yeah," said Dally. "He ain't. But you know Chet, about the steadiest man ever did a real day's work. Put his mind to it an' quit foolin' with us no-good cowhands that're gettin' to be out of date anyways, he could be anythin'. I reckon she knows that. Women got a nose for things like that. The way I hear it she plain outright told Monte to go sniff somewheres else, that Chet's the better man."

  "I'll be frizzled and fried," said Sonny. "Monte. Tell me it ain't true. I didn't know you ever let-"

  "She is a silly woman," said young Juan, sitting up straight ml his chair, indignant.

  "Monte is always the better man. Than anybody."

  "Shut up, Juan," said Monte Walsh, swinging his feet to the floor and rising from his bunk. "You're so goddamned young." He moved toward the doorway and stopped, looking down at Sonny. "What could I do?" he said. "She's right, ain't she?" He moved on and out.

  Sonny started to rise, to follow.

  "Sit down," said Dally. "Yet him be. He's almighty touchy these days. If it ain't that I've rode with him so long, he'd of took me apart for talkin' like that. But he's got to get it rubbed in somehow ... I recken we've covered most ev'rybody yappin' here like old maids at a sewin' circle. Except Joe. Joe Joslin. It don't seem right to be callin' him Jumpin' Joe any more. He's buried out back there alongside powder. It happened two years back. We was bringin' cattle out of the hills an' a early storm hit. Snow an' sleet an' the wind makin' a racket an' dark comin' fast. We was separated, hurryin' to clean 'em out. His hoss must of slipped an' he went over a bank. Broke a leg an' was mashed some. Froze when we found him by first light. I reckon he was knocked out when he hit an' never come out of it. Like to think that anyways. He was a good man, Joe was, even if his notion of jokes was sometimes kind of sour."

  "He was the best," said Sugar. "One of the best. There never was another just like Joe. Why, when we was kids an' ridin' up the trail with Cal, Joe he used to-"

  "Yeah," said Dally. "A good man. I reckon most of us are when we're dead. Or married. Which in some ways is about the same. But these ain't cheerful topics to keep worryin'. Your turn, Sonny. You tell us how you been gallivantin' through all them big towns givin' people all the wrong notions how it used to be out here . . ."

  * * *

  And outside, in the gathering dusk, while slow talk drifted on in the bunkhouse, Monte Walsh emerged from the barn carrying a new bridle made of soft hand-worked leather with a light snaffle bit. He moved past the first corral and in through a gate to the larger corral. His lips rounded in a low whistle. By the far side a neat, compact, clean-legged roan raised its head and looked toward the sound. He whistled again, moving forward, and the horse trotted to meet him and pushed at him with its head and nibbled along one of his arms. He reached out, scratching around its ears, rubbing along its neck.

  Slowly, deliberately clumsy, he put the bridle on and the horse stood with head firm, jaws opening for the bit. He let the reins drop to the ground and the horse stood, a clean solid compact shape in the dusk. He moved around it, deliberately awkward, bumping it, and lifted each foot in turn. He bent low and crawled under it, scraping against the belly, knocking against the legs, and the horse stood, firm, turning its head to watch him.

  "Shucks," murmured Monte. "I know you think I'm seventeen different kinds of a fool, but you got to be ready for anything."

  He took
the reins and led the horse out of the corral and in one swift motion was astride the bare back. Together, one being, a part of each other, the man and the horse moved out and away. They stopped where the ground dropped toward a wide arroyo, well out of any possible sight from the ranch buildings. Monte swung a leg over and slid down and the horse stood, watching him, and he stepped to a clumped juniper and pulled from under the low branches a bulky package. An old sidesaddle wrapped in burlap bags. He yanked the saddle along the ground and bumped the roan with it getting it up in place and he heaved, pulling the cinch tight, and the horse stood, head turned, watching him. He took the bags and tucked them into his belt so that they hung down around his legs. He moved by the horse's head, flapping the bags with his hands, and the horse stood, watching him.

  Awkward, not deliberately now, he put his left foot into the left stirrup. Holding to the saddle and the horse's mane, he pulled himself up, struggling to get his right leg and foot through between his left leg and the horse and into position over with knee hooked around the humped rest on the saddle, and the horse stood, firm, braced against his maneuverings. "Silly goddamned thing," he murmured. "They got forked legs just like us. But this is how they do it."

  Monte Walsh, in a burlap skirt, rawhide length of him draped on a sidesaddle, went riding in the deepening dusk.

  II

  Doc Frantz, who himself had almost forgotten he had been christened Frederick Walter, sat in his favorite chair with his slippered feet up on a table he used for a desk and looked out the front window of the old adobe storeroom which with slow alterations through the years served him as home and office. This was his favorite position. With chair and table thus precisely placed he could see neatly framed by the window most of the major points of occasional sudden interest in the little town of Harmony.