Monte Walsh

by Jack Schaefer

  "Goddamned modern contraptions," he muttered.

  He let the receiver fall, dangling. He pulled the dirtied bandanna off his head and let that fall too. He stepped along by the shelves past the counter and picked up a hat, tried it, let it fall, took another and jammed this on his head. He shrugged out of the old soaked mud-streaked jacket and let that fall and took a new one from a shelf and shrugged into it. He was putting the oilcloth packet into a pocket when he heard sounds by the door. The storekeeper, in rubber boots and raincoat with a shotgun in his hands, stepped in.

  "Hey! It's Monte!"

  "That goddamned telephone," he said. "What's wrong with it?"

  "Line's down. Been down since about noon. What's the-"

  "Trouble up at the mine," he said. "You got a fresh horse anywheres around?"

  "Hell, Monte. Nobody's brought any in. Not in weather like this. They're all out-"

  "Pay you for these things sometime," he said, striding forward. He pushed past the storekeeper, out through the doorway.

  "Hey! Wait a minute! What kind of trouble? You had any supper?"

  There was no reply. The man and the horse were moving away, into the dusk, slugging steadily into the stiffening mud along the side of the road.

  * * *

  Night over the big land, the cold clean starlit night of the quiet following the storm. Far back in the mountains rain still fell, mixed with sleet, and the river raced, out of the heights, down through the broken country past the upland valley to drop into its deepening gorge. A week, ten days, two weeks would tame it to fordable dimensions and during the summer, except in brief flurries following the few thunder­storms, it would be lazy and shallow, fed only by the remote year-round springs, wandering between sand and gravel beds along the bottom of its course. Now it raced, strong with the strength of the melting winter-hoarded snows.

  Across the high gorge-cut plain, down again over the arroyo-slashed slopes, across the miles of mud-strewn levels, forty-some miles overall as a raven might fly, what had been the road and would be again led to the edge of a long escarpment, a sheer slant dropping ninety feet, almost vertical, to the lower level beneath. Here the road turned sharp right, over the edge, leading down, a narrow rock-ballasted slice little more than one-wagon width cut into the face of the steep slope angling down to the renewal of plain beneath. A mile and a half beyond, out on the lower plain, tiny beacons in the bigness that stretched to dark horizon all around, glowed the last few lights of the sleeping town.

  Out of the dim distances receding back to the great bulk of the mountains jogged a weary mud-caked cow pony. The man in the saddle sat hunched forward, head down, and now and again coughing shook him and the horse stopped and when he was through moved forward again.

  They halted at the edge of the escarpment where the road led down. Running water had ripped away most of the road fill, leaving the rock ballast, rough and ragged underfoot. Here and there thin streams still seeped out of the face of the slope, trickling down.

  He patted the horse on the neck. "Almost there," he said. "You've pulled through enough mud to yank the hoofs off a steer. But it ain't far now."

  They started down, slow, careful of footing in the cloaking dimness of night, holding to the inside. They were a fourth of the way down with the darker menace of the slope rising sharp to the right above them and the emptiness of space dropping away to the left. Ahead now the roadway suddenly narrowed. In the hours past water pouring over the lip above had cascaded down to wash a gash in it, leaving only a slim passage. Water still dripped from above, falling with tiny splattings on the stones beneath.

  The horse hesitated, doubtful, and the thought flickered in his mind that he ought to dismount and lead on foot and the chilled weariness in him checked that and the horse moved forward, cautious, testing for each step. He heard the first soft sucking sound above and other sounds following and he looked up and saw the small slide of stones and wet earth starting, increasing, acquiring momentum downward. The horse heard too and he felt the tired muscles bunch under him and it leaped forward for the wider way beyond and swung its hindquarters outward to avoid the slide sweeping past.

  A stone grazed his right boot and the slide was past and he thought that they had made it and then he was aware of the saddle sinking back under him. The will and the skill and the experience of the years were there in the old dun, but the instant snap and surge in the muscles were gone, left along the miles behind. The rear hoofs had hit on the edge of the gash and the support there had crumpled before the horse could gather itself for another leap. He threw his weight forward in the saddle and the hind legs of the horse beat in desperate scramble and it sank back, back, and it clung with straining forehoofs as if waiting for him to climb over it to the safety beyond and he was out of the saddle, boots shaken loose from stirrups, up along the neck, when the forehoofs ripped away and they were falling. They hit on the steep slope ten feet down, the horse under, and bounced out and hit again and the heavier weight of the horse fell away from him and the reins were jerked from his hand and the horse dropped somersaulting on down and he slid, spread-eagled along the face of the slope. One hand caught a small bush and this slowed his downward rush and the roots pulled free and he rolled over and over, hitting against stones, and jolted to a stop in a shallow puddle at the bottom.

  He lay still, dazed and battered. Slowly he turned over and crawled out of the puddle. He remained on his hands and knees, head hanging, for several minutes. He was sweating under his damp clothes, yet he shook as if with a strong chill. Slowly he pushed to his feet and went to the body of the horse where it lay, limp and still, head doubled under, neck snapped. He heaved and strained, straightening out the limp head. The lifeless eyes stared unseeing into the night. He stood and looked down for a long moment and the lines of his lean aging face were rock-hard. His own voice seemed to come from far away to him.

  "I never told you," he said. "I never thought to. But you was the best. You was the best of them all."

  He turned and moved away, limping, swaying, toward the last few lights of the town a mile and a half away.

  On the edge of town, in the front room of a two-room house, by the light of an oil lamp, four men sat around a table playing poker, lazily, without much interest in it.

  "Ain't it about time to quit?" said one, yawning.

  Something bumped against the front door and the handle turned and the door opened and Monte Walsh staggered in. His eyes burned unnaturally bright in deep-sunk sockets and his face showed a high flush under its tan and dried slpash­ings of mud. He staggered to the table and leaned with one hand on a corner. The other hand fumbled in a pocket of his ripped mud-stained jacket and took out a small oilcloth packet. He dropped this on the table. "Get it ... to Scofield ... of the mine company . . . fast," he said. A fit of coughing shook him and he wiped a hand across his mouth and it came away with flecks of blood on it.

  The four men had jumped to their feet. One of them pushed a chair toward him.

  Monte sank into it. "I reckon ... I'm kind of . . . played out," he said. Slowly, like an old pine falling, he toppled sideways out of the chair to the floor.

  * * *

  In the cold clean dark of the small hours of the night moving toward morning a rail engine and two cars and another engine behind worked upward through the high broken country, smashing into soggy drifts with pointed plank plow n front, puffing to a stop in choked cuts and blowing steam in impatience while men with shovels swarmed forward. Back down across the miles, in the back room of the two­room house on the edge of town, Monte Walsh lay under blankets on an old brass bed, eyes closed, breath coming in short ragged gasps.

  One of the poker players, dark-haired with dark drooping mustache, stood by the foot of the bed, going through the pockets of Monte's worn damp clothes, putting what he found on the top of a small dresser. A young man, pants and suit coat pulled on over pajamas, sat on a chair by the head of the bed with a small black bag at his feet.

&n
bsp; "I've done all I can right now," said the young man. "I suppose we could take him to the hospital in the morning, but I don't think moving him any is advisable. He can stay right here. That is, if you don't mind."

  "Mind?" said the black-mustached man. "Hell, man, that's Monte."

  "Who is he anyway?" said the young man.

  "I just told you. That's Monte. Monte Walsh."

  "I know that," said the young man. "I patched him a few months ago after that big brawl at the Wild Goose. I mean has he got any family? Any relatives? They ought to know."

  "Never heard of any," said the black-mustached man.

  The young man rose, picking up his bag, and started for the other room. "I'll be back after I get a little sleep," he said.

  "Wait a minute," said the older man. "Here's something." He held up an old photograph, limp, water-smeared. "Yeah. On the back. A name and address. Maybe you can make it out."

  "I'll just take that," said the young man. "I'll stop at the telegraph office and see what I can do."

  * * *

  Spring crept through the lower levels again, regaining its hold. The sun shone warm and reassuring, into its second day of erasing the effects of the storm. Wagons and an occasional automobile rolled along the main streets. Here and there clerks swept sidewalks or washed away the last of the mud splashes and dirt stains from storefronts. A few people were already out walking to the post office, the courthouse, the several two-story office buildings. Life, normal everyday living, moved in the slow leisurely southwestern manner throughout the town.

  On the outskirts, in the back room of the two-room house, Monte Walsh lay on the brass bed, motionless, eyes closed, face drained of color under its weathered tan to an ashy leathery look. Drops of sweat glistened on his forehead. His chest, under the light cover, rose and fell, rose and fell, in short gasping breaths.

  In one corner of the room lay an old worn saddle, horn bent and broken, and an old worn bridle.

  On a chair by the back door, coatless, sleeves rolled up, collar of his wrinkled shirt open, sat the young man, his small black bag open by his feet. He stared down at his clasped hands and frowned at them.

  On a chair by the head of the bed sat a solid square-built man. His simple plain obviously expensive clothes were rumpled and wrinkled. His eyes, deep-creased at the corners from long-ago wind and sun, were red-rimmed now in his round jowl-cheeked face from most of a day and a night of sleepless travel. The quiet authority of his presence seemed to fill the small room. He was barely aware of the young man ten feet away. His whole attention was concentrated on the still figure on the bed. He reached down to a basin of water at his feet and dipped a handkerchief in and wrung it out and leaned over the bed to wipe Monte's forehead.

  The young man rose to his feet and stepped to the foot of the bed and leaned on the brass rail between the corner posts, looking at the square-built man. "I hope you realize," he said, voice low, urgent, "that I've done everything I possibly could. If there was anything more, I'd be doing it. I've been right here most of the time. But I don't understand it. The fever's burning him up. I can't check it. He's been like that ever since I first got here. In a coma. He kicks up sometimes like he was trying to come out of it. But he never does."

  The square-built man might not have heard. He was wiping Monte's forehead again.

  "You hear me?" said the young man. "I can't understand it. Exposure, yes. Bruised and banged, yes. And pneumonia. Yes. All that's understandable. But a man like that ought to be able to fight it. He's made of gristle and rawhide. It's inside. His lungs. He's been spitting blood. It's as if they were damaged bad before and this things broken them loose inside

  him."

  The square-built man looked up, focusing briefly on the young man. "I know," he said. "He scorched them bad once." A twinge of bitter remembrance crossed the square­built man's face. "It should have been me," he said.

  The front door of the house opened and someone entered. The mine superintendent stood in the inner doorway. "Any change?"

  "No," said the young man.

  "One of them died last night," said the superintendent. "But the other two will make it all right. I think he ought to know."

  Silence in the small room.

  The superintendent shifted weight from one foot to the other, uneasy, embarrassed. "You know," he said. "Of course you know that the company is paying all costs. For anything you can do for him."

  Silence in the small room. "Well," said the superintendent. "I'll be looking in later." He turned and was gone.

  The young man sighed. "Does that damn fool think I'm worrying about my bill?" he said. He went again to the chair by the back door and sank onto it, tired, legs sprawled out.

  Over on the bed Monte Walsh stirred, body twitching under the cover. His eyes opened, staring upward.

  The square-built man leaned toward him, quick, eager. "Monte," he said. "Monte. It's me. It's me."

  Monte's head turned slightly toward the sound and his eyes, vacant, unaware, seemed to be looking at the square­built man and his glance moved on, vacant, glazing, and his eyes closed again.

  The square-built man stood up, hands at his sides clench­ing into fists, arms shaking with the tension in them. His voice was a hoarse bitter sound in his throat. "He doesn't ... he doesn't even remember me."

  The square-built man moved aimlessly about the room. He stared out the one window, unaware of what he saw. He stopped by the back door and opened it, staring out into the clear clean brilliance of sunlight over the renewing land.

  "That's all right," said the young man. "Leave it open. It's as warm out as in."

  The square-built man might not have heard. He stepped out and bent down to sit on the doorsill, staring off into dis­tance. Mechanically, out of old habit, he took a short stubby pipe and a small leather pouch from a pocket and began to fill the pipe. He stopped. His fingers tightened on the pouch, spilling tobacco from it. Again a twinge of remembrance crossed his face. He put the pipe and pouch back in the pocket. He sat still, staring into distance. He seemed to feel the helplessness of sitting still, a need to be doing something. He reached out, barely aware of what he was doing, and picked up a stick from the ground beside him and took out a small pocketknife and whittled slowly at the stick with long slow strokes.

  Time passed and a small pile of thin shavings grew between the dusty expensive shoes of the square-built man and five times the front door of the two-room house opened and people walked softly to the inner doorway, men and women and once a thin knobby-jointed boy, and they asked their question and the young man answered and they looked at the still figure on the bed and walked softly away, closing the front door gently behind them.

  Time passed, slow and inevitable, and the small pile of shavings increased and the young man was on the chair by the head of the bed. He held Monte's wrist in his right hand and looked at his watch in his left hand.

  Monte's arm jerked away from him. Monte's eyes opened again and his body thrashed under the covers as if he were fighting, feeble but fighting, fighting, to break through, to break out of the weakness that held him. His head rose a few inches. His voice came, gasping, but the words clear and distinct. "Find him ... find him ... tell him ... tell him . . . no goddamned . . . autymobile ... could of ... done it." His head dropped back.

  "Who?" said the young man, bending over. "Who? Tell who?"

  A last flicker of fading vitality. A small dwindling sound. "Rollins ... Chet Rollins ... in ... in . . ."

  The young man bent lower, feeling for the pulse that was no longer there. He jerked a bit at a sharp sound behind him, the snapping of a half-whittled stick in two hard-gripping hands.

  * * *

  Night over the big land and another day. The simple service was over. The wagon, drawn by two stout willing draft horses, had rolled out the road to the escarpment a mile and a half away and up the newly filled road past the crew working on it and on across the fiats, leaving the road, mile after mile, and up some
into the broken country beyond. At the base of a high rock headland the simple coffin had been lowered into the ground, the simple pine box containing the still body in old worn range clothes and with it the old tarnished gunbelt and spurs. The battered old saddle with smashed horn and bridle had been lowered to rest on the wood. The grave was filled now and the mound of fresh-turned earth warmed under the afternoon sun. Everyone had left now, everyone but the square-built man sitting on a large stone, waiting, and another man in overalls and wool shirt who worked, as he had since midmorning, with hammer and chisel on the granite rock wall rising behind the head of the grave.

  "Cut it deep," said the square-built man. "I want it to last. I want it to outlast any of us. And our kids. And our kid's kids."

  Time passed and the tiny chips flew from the rock and the square-built man sat as still and quiet as the stone beneath him and looked into the great distances that fell away from the massive bulk of the mountains, down and away, seeming limitless, serene and indifferent, with the town a mere small meaningless smudge lost in the immensity.

  The overalled man finished his work. "You want anything more?" he said. "A verse or something like that? I wouldn't charge a cent extra."

  "No," said the square-built man. "That says it all."

  The overalled man moved toward the two saddle horses waiting patiently fifty feet away. He put his tools in a bag tied to the horn of his saddle. He mounted and rode away, down the slopes toward the lower levels. He and the horse grew small, receding out of sight below a ridge.

  The Honorable Chester A. Rollins, successful merchant, banker, three-term mayor of his town, new representative from his county to the new legislature of the new state of New Mexico, rose from the stone and stood at the foot of the grave, looking at the legend graved deep into the rock of the rising cliff.