by Les Weil
"Keep the lid on here," said Cal. "I got some ridin' to do. Call it two weeks. Tell Winslow when he comes pokin aroun' I'll be back when I'm back if not before." Cal Brennan swung up and rode into the morning sun.
* * *
What was east of New Mexico Territory was west Texas.
Cal Brennan and his long-legged bay that was like him in general contour and disposition drifted through the long leg stretching rugged distances. His aging joints complained some but not too much because he took the going easy and he slept snug in his blankets and on and under the tarpaulin an under the open sky and thought of the times when a saddle was his home and he never would have asked for a better bed. He stopped briefly at lonely campfires and almost lonely ranches and the few far scattered towns and sometime in the great clean spaces he met a rider or riders and always he asked questions. Now and again, after some of the answers, he grinned and said now who would have thought any woman would take that one and pulled out the piece of paper an the pencil stub and scratched off a name--or maybe instead he closed his eyes for a moment and a grimness gripped his lean face and he said nothing and scratched off a name an broke the point of the pencil doing it. And now and again, not often. meeting some rawhide-hard squint-eyed man, he would ride or step forward with a sudden warmth lighting eyes and exchange outrageous insults and then talk long an earnestly.
Once, following instructions that had been hard to get, he rode deep into rocky scrub-timbered country and sighted a small cabin and moved toward it whistling loud and cheerful and a rifle barrel poked out the cabin's one window and a voice gave warning and he put his hands up behind his head and nudged the bay onward and a man burst out of the cabin doorway, dropping the rifle, and ran forward and fairly yanked him out of the saddle and hugged him with rib-cracking vigor and called him all manner of impolite names. And once again, in a middling town, he talked to a man through the barred doorway of the brick jail and went away to pay out dollars from a small buckskin bag and came back with gunbelt hanging from one hand and the key to the padlock in the other and let the man out.
"I got me a leetle bus'ness to attend to south some," said the man, buckling the gunbelt around his waist. "Got to finish that 'fore I do anythin' else. Be seein' you."
"Need any help?" said Cal.
"Thanks," said the man, checking the cylinder of the gun and dropping it back into its holster. "But this is pers'nal."
And again, swinging north and west, near the territorial line, heading back, he came on a district roundup. Representatives of ranches all through the district were gathering, waiting to start, amusing themselves with poker games on spread-out blankets and other more strenuous pastimes. He paid his respects to the roundup boss and picked the neatest and best-stocked of the chuck wagons and absorbed a good meal by its fire and he wandered around watching the fun. He bumped into a few men he knew and passed remarks with them but he kept moving and he felt his age as he saw so many young ones that had come along since his own time. And then he stopped near what seemed a healthy argument.
Four or five men on foot were exchanging vigorous opinions with two men in saddles, one of these a lean young length of rawhide atop a deep-chested leggy dun, the other stocky, square-built, astride a thick-necked black.
"G'wan," said one of the men on foot. "We got ten dollars says you can't."
"Don't do it," said another man a short way off. "That thing's a hell-roaring ringer they brung along looking for easy money."
"Shucks," said the lean man on the dun. "It's a horse, ain't it?"
Cal hunkered down on his heels and rolled a cigarette. The group moved off toward the near edge of the horse herd about fifty yards away. The square-built man on the black shook out a loop and one of the men on foot pointed at a big heavy-muscled gray and the gray, instantly aware, slipped deeper into the herd. The square-built man pushed forward on the black, easing in, and his arm moved, seeming casual and effortless, and the loop leaped over the backs and weaving heads between and had the gray.
Cal pushed his hat higher up his forehead and watched the flurry of activity as men swarmed around the gray and blindfolded it and bridled it and the saddle from the leggy dun was slapped on it and cinched tight. The lean man, on foot now, reached out and slapped a leg of the square-built man; sitting easy on the black, coiling in his rope, and moved toward the gray. In one smooth swift motion he was in the saddle, battered old boots slapping into the stirrups, body leaning low as he took the reins. He flipped off the blindfold and the gray, not frantic, frightened, but enraged, knowing, reared high and plunged down, jaws smashing against the bit for head play, and plowed forward pitching.
"Yowee!" yelled the lean man, serene in saddle, raking the gray with his spurs, slapping hard with his hat.
Cal rolled another cigarette and watched the gray highrolling and windmilling with a skill and a dedicated fury that made his eyes light up some in appreciation.
"Yowee!" yelled the lean man again, gasping now, hat gone, blood dribbling from his nose, but body firm in the saddle.
Cal forgot his cigarette, watching the gray come all unraveled in sheer frustrated rage and unleash a series of deadly tricks unknown even in his own long experience.
The gray leveled and raced, headlong, straight for the cluster of wagons and spread-out blankets and groups of men about them. Pans clattered and fire embers flew under its` hoofs and men scrambled and rolled out of the way.
"That ain't polite!" gasped the lean man, trying to yank it around. It reared and toppled sideways, maybe deliberately, into the front wheel of a wagon and went down and the lean man, jolted loose, smacked against the wagon, fell and lay limp, twitching some, fighting for breath. The gray scrambled up, bucking and whirling, and sighted him on the ground and jumped in close, rearing high to slash down with forehoofs.
But a thick-necked black at full run was threading fast through the mix-up and the square-built man in the saddle had a small loop forming and this flicked out and caught the forefeet still in the air and he whipped the rope around his saddle horn, close in, and the black drove on, swinging away, and the gray, yanked off balance, crashed down inches from the lean man on the ground.
Cal dropped the stub of his cigarette with a jerk of his hand and put two burned fingers in his mouth. Licking these, he watched the lean man pull himself up by the spokes of the rear wheel of the wagon and step out, limping, chest heaving.
As the gray struggled to its feet, the now loosened rope dropping, the lean man hobbled in and took hold of the horn and heaved himself into the saddle coming up, leaning again to take the reins. The gray squealed and pitched, once, twice, three times, and stood with legs braced, head hanging.
Cal lengthened up, wiping fingers on his shirt. He pulled his hat down more firmly on his forehead. He rubbed a hand down one weathered cheek and around over his chin. He moved away, looking for the roundup boss, and found him. He nodded toward the lean man and the square-built man standing together now, intent on counting a fistful of old dollar bills.
"Good boys," said the roundup boss. "But footloose. They was ridin' the rough string for the Flying 0 last fall. Before that with the Double H for maybe a few months. Before that likely a half dozen others. Reppin' right now for the Sombrero over acrost the line that has some drift this way. Likely anywheres next."
"You're gettin' old," said Cal. "Seems I kind of remember you an' me wasn't exactly tied down at about that age."
Teetering a bit on his absurdly high-curved-heel boots, he walked toward the two men.
* * *
Late spring days drifted over the old adobe house and the sagging. veranda sagged less on improved foundation and the bunkhouse was up and roofed and the cookhouse the same and the long low barn was about finished and the small windmill pumped with a minimum of squeaking to fill the storage tank on its own stilts nearby and a big corral was sprouting behind the small stout one. Cal Brennan sat often on the veranda in an old rocking chair padded with several ancient tatt
ered saddle blankets and surveyed the proceedings. "Bein' manager has somethin' to it," he said. "Hard on the head, maybe, but easy on the muscles."
And every now and then, by one and by two, rawhide-hard squint-eyed men came riding along the wagon trace and stopped by the veranda to talk to him and he took a little notebook from a shirt pocket and wrote in it and they moved on down to the small corral and turned their horses in and carried what they had tied or strapped behind cantles into the bunkhouse and tested the bunks built along the side walls Sometimes of an evening and when new ones had arrived the bunkhouse shook with greetings and raw horseplay and shouted remembrances of experiences shared elsewhere in other years out across the great stretches of the big land. With one of the first, a big slope-shouldered man, giving the orders, they dug postholes for the new corral and set the posts in pairs and lashed rail-ends tight between the pairs and sometimes they rode off carrying the Slash Y iron and were gone a while and came back driving a small herd of half-wild horses or a larger herd of longhorn cows with their calves to be fanned out over the big grant rolling southward and always now a few of them were swinging out in long lonely circuit, riding line and stopping drift while the stock learned the limits of their range.
Cal sat in his rocking chair and he wandered around easy and casual, taking care not to get in the way, and sometimes: he rode out on his long-legged bay apparently just for the exercise and to keep his aging muscles limber, but there was not much that happened anywhere on the range or closer in by the buildings that he missed. He sat on the veranda and, studied his little notebook and once in a while he had to rub out an entry in it. "Ev'ry man's got a right to a mistake or two," he said.
There was the time one of the men who had been around only a few days came to the veranda, long-faced and aggrieved. "Cal," he said. "You disappoint me. I never thought to see the day. Diggin' postholes. That ain't a man's work. You know I ain't goin' to do anythin' you can't do from a`' boss."
"Know how you feel," said Cal, "I had leanin's that way' oncet myself. But hereabouts an' nowadays things has changed. What needs to be done, gets done."
"Not by me," said the man. "A shovel. You can put your shovel. Makes calluses in the wrong places. I ain't like you yet, ready to climb down out of the saddle."
"In or out," said Cal, frost creeping into his voice, "it's all - the same, accordin' to what's needed when. Maybe you better be movin' on."
"Maybe I had," said the man.
There was the time too Cal was ambling past the small corral and saw a lean young length of rawhide inside, who rubbing down a leggy dun, stop and step over to look at the bloody sides of a tired sorrel and stand very still looking with the muscles of his young face hardening. Cal saw him head for the gate and Cal was there as he came out and words passed.
"It ain't only this once," said the lean young man. "It's every goddamned horse he rides. I'm a-going to scramble him .some and mark him with his own spurs."
"You're doin' nothin' of the kind," said Cal. "I got eyes too. An' I'm running this outfit. You hold your fightin' for those new broncs an' don't go goin' off half-cocked."
And a little later Cal caught the right man off from the others and said a few things in a voice that could have withered a cactus ending with: "An' pack your gear an git!" The man stood quivering with anger flushing his face and saw a lean young one and a square-built other young one easing up to flank Cal and he turned on his heel and got.
And again there was the time dispositions took to going sour and the wrong kind of feeling was spreading and Cal was wondering just who was the troublemaker and whether competence at range work could balance a mean temper but before he got around to making a decision it was made for him. A short swift ruckus back of the barn ended with the big slope-shouldered man coming to the veranda with another one on his shoulder, limp and out cold. "I only hit 'im twice," said the big man, dumping the other down. "Next time I'd break his neck. Get rid of 'im." Cal took the precaution of emptying the limp man's gun and cartridge belt before sloshing water over him. Cal gave him a month's pay and watched him ride off, chewing his lower lip, and Cal saddled and rode out, watching, just to make sure he kept on going.
And still again there was the time one of the men came larruping in from the range on a sweaty horse and pulled up short by the veranda. "Sorry, Cal," he said. "I'd admire to
stick aroun' an' keep y'all comp'ny. But I hear there's a dep'ty hit town askin' the wrong questions."
Cal rubbed a hand down one cheek and over his chin. "Pick a fresh boss," he said. "An' Cookie'll pack you some grub. Anyone comes pokin' here, I got plenty of misinformation." He sighed. "Maybe you can get back sometime."
"I sure would admire to," said the man. "Be seein' you. He swung away toward the small corral and Cal sighed ag ' and took out his little notebook.
* * *
So the days passed and men came and some men went, their own accord or sent on their way, and Cal sat on the veranda and studied his little notebook. Late one afternoon he sat there in the old rocking chair and the Honorable Robe H. Winslow sat on an old kitchen chair beside him. Over by the bunkhouse assorted squinteyed men were scrubbin away the dust of a day's work with the aid of several tin basins and two roller towels and were passing remarks on the aromas emanating from the cookhouse.
"My having to be back in Chicago for a while doesn't seem to have slowed you any," said Winslow. "A great deal seems to have been happening here. That is a remarkably rough-looking crew you have there."
"Rough-lookin'?" said Cal. "You disappoint me. They look downright pretty to me. That thick one on the end, you know him. Perkins. Sunfish Perkins. Came out here with me an been with me ever since. Slow. Yes. An' not too bright. But he sure can shoe a hoss an' doctor a sick cow an' keep windmill runnin'. That big one there's my foreman. Henderson. Hat Henderson. Never knew till I put him down in my book the right name's Albert. I had to argue plenty to get him here. Best damn trail boss I ever knew. He could take herd straight through hell an' come out the other side. But touchy. I got to keep out of his way an' not go interfering much or he'd pick me up under one arm an' chuck me into this house an' likely right through the back wall. I saw him real mad once, some years since, an' I ain't hankerin' to see that again. But he's got a bump of respons'bility bigger'n a buffalo bull. The long one next him is Williams. Petey Williams. I don't know as there's anything special you might say about him except he's a dang good all-around cowman that'd walk up to a grizzly an' spit in its eye if that come along in the line of work."
"A grizzly?" said Winslow. "Brennan, you are stringing me."
"It happens," said Cal. "Petey come on one the other day lunchin' off a calf. Only he didn't do no spittin'. Only shootin'. Hide's hangin' on the back of the barn. But I was sayin'. Next one there is Austin. Shorty Austin. Called that 'cause he's kind of short-fused on gettin' peeved. One beside him is Joslin, Jumping Joe Joslin. Got that name oncet when he was full of pizen-juice an' accidental-like sat on a stove an' popped up so high he put a hole in the ceilin'. The one fightin' Joe there for a towel is Wyman, Sugar Wyman. I misremember how he got that tag. Like Petey, there's nothin' special you might say about those three except that they rode up the trail with me a couple times when you'd of said they was just about weaned an' they was wildcats then an' they've gone on gettin' maybe wilder an' if there's any kind of devilment a cow-critter can think up they can't handle it ain't been tried yet."
"Well, well, Brennan," said Winslow. "I should say your taste-"
"Next one there," said Cal, "is Kent. Powder Kent. Still don't know the right front name 'cause he won't give it. But Powder's plenty apt. He ain't carryin' that name for fancy. Earned it often enough. I had to bail him out of a tin-can jail over the line an' right away he skipped chasin' somebody or somethin' an' likely earned it again but he made it here like he said he would an' figurin' some of the things that likely'll happen when we start spreadin' out crowdin' the range I find it right comfortin' havin' him here."
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"Now listen here, Brennan," said Winslow. "What are you-"
"Just like I do with the next one," said Cal. "Johnson. Dally Johnson. Silly name, maybe, 'cause he's a tie-fast man nowadays, ever since he lost a thumb dallyin'. Had myself a time findin' him. Had to go smoke him out of back country where he was hidin' from a posse. I expect there ain't a trick to maverickin' an' sleeperin' an' changin' a brand he don't know."
"Good heavens, Brennan,",said Winslow. "You mean you deliberately-"
"This ain't no boardin' school I'm runnin'," said Cal. "You ever hear of a good man stealin' from his own outfit? An' Dally's a good man. I've rode with him. There ain't nobody'll be playin' games with our stock Dally won't smell it out. Quit frettin'. He's Slash Y now. An' you see that slim one there lookin' like he's splittin' the breeze just standin' still wipin' his face? That's Walsh. Monte Walsh. I got me a sneakin' little suspicion the hoss he can't ride ain't been foaled yet. Natural-born to it. Better'n he knows an' he thinks he knows plenty. An' not just ridin'. I got me a sneakin' little other suspicion when he's through with a hoss that hoss knows its manners an' its business. Now that thicker one gettin' ready to pour water down Monte's neck if he don't look aroun' fast enough is Rollins. Chet Rollins. Best man with a rope I ever saw. He don't seem to know that himself, maybe 'cause he's too busy taggin' Monte an' pullin' him out of troubles. That Monte's a bear-cat at tanglin' into things. Damnfool things. They been mixed into some mighty fine brawls m town three-four times already."