by Les Weil
"Very interesting," said Winslow. "And just what kind of reputation do you think-"
"The right kind," said Cal. "An' there's one more inside the cookhouse there. Eagens. Skimpy Eagens. He's been a lot of things, some good, some not so as you'd mention, but he's hobbled by age an' a game leg now an' he's cookin'. Good grub too as you'll find out. Only he wasn't what you might call partic'lar about bein' clean. Smelled kind of high. So one day the boys, likely it was Monte's notion, stripped him down naked as a plucked chicken an' doused him in that water trough an' used hoss brushes till he didn't have much skin left. He took that surprisin' quiet. But next mornin' he put somethin' in the griddle cakes an' the boys spent most of the day lightin' out for likely spots an' gettin' their pants down fast. Worked out about even. They ain't botherin' Skimpy again an' he's keepin' reasonable clean."
Cal rubbed one hand down one cheek and over his chin. "I've been yappin' about the men 'cause I'm sure goin' to be needin' 'em, what with you gallivantin' aroun' doin' silly things. What's this I been hearin' about you buyin' a mixed herd, deliv'ry down by the border?"
"I have not mentioned that yet," said Winslow. "How did you-"
"I got ways," said Cal. "Call it jackrabbit telegraph. Why'd you do it?"
"A bargain," said Winslow. "A real bargain. I would have waited to consult you, but the man claimed he couldn't wait. I couldn't let it slip."
"If you'd inquired some," said Cal, "you'd have found I let it slip. If you was dry ahind the ears you'd know better'n to go fussin' with one of them border herds. Mixed is right. Likely seventeen diff'rent brands an' no straight papers on a one an' plenty cows still wet from bein' sneaked across the river. Now with you gettin' in my hair like you said you wouldn't, I got to go down there an' get 'em. Still shorthanded too for that kind of doin'. Have to slap our brand on 'em right there an' fast before too many squawks an' claimers gather an' things get nasty. Have to bring 'em up here through mighty dry country an' past the Apache reservation which ain't always healthy."
Cal looked at Winslow as if he pitied him some. "Me an' some of the boys'll be leavin' in the mornin'," he said. "You remarked they was rough-lookin'. What kind d'you think you need to make good on a fool stunt like you just pulled?"
* * *
Barren and sun-scorched, the land rose northward from the ribbon of green that marked the Rio Grande to a long flat-topped ridge. Over and beyond in a wide hollow of sparse grassland three dark-skinned young ones, little more than boys, on three thin ponies held the main herd of cows and half-grown calves and a few old bulls. Several hundred yards away two more held the cut, the cattle already branded and ear-marked. Off to the side an even younger one rode lazily in a circle around some fifteen grazing horses. And in between, moving through dust and heat, the men of the Slash Y worked, silent mostly, grim-faced, shirts drenched with sweat, working against time.
Cal Brennan tended the fire, keeping the irons hot. Petey Williams and Chet Rollins roped the big ones, stretching them out on the ground for Hat Henderson and Monte Walsh with iron and knife. Nearby Powder Kent dragged calves squirming at the end of his rope for the expert attentions of Dally Johnson.
"Jeeeeesus, Cal!" said Hat Henderson, wiping a sleeve across his face. "When you scared up those kids, why didn't you find us a man or two?"
"There ain't many down this way," said Cal. "Not as I'd look at twice."
Time passed and the herd dwindled, slowly, slowly, an the cut increased the same and over the ridge top came tired horse, a solid little bay, caked mud drying on its legs, sweat streaks drying along neck and flanks, and the man the saddle showed slim and compact through the dust on and the face under the big sombrero was lean and swarth and black-mustached. A rifle stock poked out of its scabbard opposite his coiled rope and that inevitable addition, a worn Colt .45, snugged into its holster along his right thigh like part of the man himself. He held back a moment, hand firm on reins, studying the scene before him, then with a small shrug of shoulders came on.
Cal Brennan dropped the wood in his hands and picked the rifle lying near and moved out some. The man came on following the trace of a trail that snaked on past, and stopped, aware that every man seeming hard at work was aware of him and that Cal Brennan stood not thirty feet away with a rifle in his hands. He placed his own hands plain sight on his saddle horn and looked out over the work in progress and a tiny shock of recognition ran through Cal Brennan and his mind leaped back two years and he was in El Paso selling a few steers and crossing the river in the slow dusk to Juarez for some Mexican chili and finding it in a little cafe and finding it so hot he was stepping into a little cantina for something cooling. There was a game of some kind at a back table and a pretty girl was serving drinks an rolling her eyes at the men playing. And suddenly a shot was sounding and Cal was hunting cover fast behind the bar an peering over and at the table a slim compact black-mustached man was rising to his feet with a gun in his right hand and across from him a man was going down, dropping his own gun as he went, and the black-mustached man's gun was speaking again, three times, and the three lamps were shattering out and the man himself was a shadow slipping through the rear door and Cal was muttering to himself:
"Neat an' thorough."
Cal stood still, rifle in hands ready to come up, remembering in almost the same flash various tales he had heard since and the man, looking now at him and the rifle, shrugged shoulders again and lifted reins to ride on. He was passing Cal, quiet, careful to keep his hands in plain sight, when the trouble started.
By the fire Dally Johnson had a calf pigged tight and Powder Kent was heading back to the herd. The calf bawled and its mother, big and mean and circling unnoticed near horn the cut, came charging in. Dally saw her and dodged, ,shouting, and she was right after him, big horns hooking close.
Cal turned and saw the cow hard after Dally and other men swinging their horses but too far away and he was bringing the rifle up when he heard the thud of spurs and the grunt of a horse and the solid little bay from the trail scuddled past him. It drove in and turned the cow and dodged away with fancy stepping as the cow twisted hooking at it and drove in again, blocking, and the cow ducked on around after Dally again. But the man in the saddle had his rope loose now and he nipped the flying hindfeet and stretched her out with a thump that knocked all the fight out of her.
"Neat an' thorough," muttered Cal Brennan. He walked over, rifle barrel dropping low, to the man coiling in his rope. "You're mighty handy with that hemp," he said.
"Gracias, Sen"or," said the man. "Een your words, I thank you."
"It's me doin' the thankin'," said Cal. He rubbed his free hand down one cheek and over his chin. He drew in a deep hreath. "An' in my words I'm sayin' maybe if you ain't tied to anythin' else right now, it could be we could use you an' that rope. That is, till we finish brandin' here and move these critters up the trail a piece. We got hosses enough if we use 'em careful."
The man looked down at him, eyes narrowed some. "But the name," he said slowly. "The name, eet ees Dobe Chavez."
Cal drew in another deep breath. "I know that," he said. "An' I'm feelin' some better already, hearin' you speak it straight."
"There ees a reward," said the man. "Across the reevair."
"That ain't here," said Cal. "Not that it means a damn thing to me, but how is it on this side?"
"Nada," said the man. Then with a sudden grin: "Not at thees leetle moment."
"We'll work your tail off," said Cal cheerfully, slapping him on a leg. Cal turned away. "Hey, Petey," he yelled. "Climb down an' help over here by the fire. We got us another rope. Monte, get him a fresh hoss. Don't think you need worry about pickin' it gentle."
Time passed and the work moved, faster, but quiet, very quiet, with a slow tension mounting and Cal Brennan alert and watchful. And later, in the soft dusk of evening, they sa around the fire, quiet still and not just from being tired, eating slowly which was unusual, the others watching Dobbe Chavez without looking directly at him.
Something was there, in the air, something out of the past and the place an the long stretches of the Rio Grande southeastward to the Gulf. It was Powder Kent, edgy perhaps that he had let Dally down not noticing that cow, who spoke. "Damned if I ever thought," he said, not to anyone in particular, not mean, just testing the situation, letting the words out flat to lie there the firelight. "Damned if I ever thought I'd be sittin' aroun' good cow camp campfire along with a goddamned greaser outlaw."
Silence around the fire. And into the silence came the voice of Dobe Chavez, the same way, not pushing, simply putting out the words to fall any way they might be taken. "Ees right," he said. "Ees vary fonny. Nevair did I theenk be like thees weeth, what you say, goddamned gringos."
Silence around the fire, tightening, moving with the a most imperceptible shiftings of position of Dobe Chavez and Powder Kent toward the possible explosive instant.
"The hell with it," said Dally Johnson. "He knows what do with a rope, don't he?"
And another long day passed with Dobe's rope keepin pace with Chet's and the last of the herd was branded an the dark-skinned young ones were paid off and the men of the Slash Y moved north through the dry lonely spaces, pushing the herd into the nights, and Dobe rode swing like a man used to moving cattle fast for whatever might be the reasons, and it was Dobe's gun that spoke its piece, neat and thorough, alongside Powder Kent's the early morning they flushed out three renegade Apaches hoping to start a stampede and cut off the stragglers. Then they were back at the old adobe house and Cal Brennan counted out silver dollars, from a buckskin bag into Dobe's hand and Dobe stood quiet staring down at the money, making no move to head for the solid little bay out by the small corral.
"Anythin' wrong?" said Cal. "Ain't that enough? It's the goin' rate."
"Thees money," said Dobe. "What ees eet to me?"
"How in hell would I know?" said Cal, somewhat sharp. "What you gettin"at?"
"I leeve by the gun," said Dobe. "I leeve good. Some of the time. But there by the reevair, what you call it, the taste it ees bad in the mouth. Una semana, one of the weeks, two of the days more, I leeve now by the work. Weeth the Slash Y. The taste, eet ees good."
"All right, Dobe," said Cal. "Over in the bunkhouse there the third bunk on the right, eet ees empty."
* * *
So the days passed and again Cal Brennan sat on the veranda in the old rocking chair and again the Honorable Robert H. Winslow sat beside him. Off to the west the late afternoon sun, tipping the far mounvins, sent color streaming out across the great bowl of sky.
"You know," said Winslow, "I really regret having to go hack east tomorrow. This country does sort of take hold of you."
"You'll be forgettin' that part of it," said Cal, "soon as you're back there countin' all the money you been spendin' out here. That's what I don't take to much back there. Too much countin' of money." Cal shifted a bit in the old chair. "But I reckon I been kind of hard on you now an' again. Hard to take maybe. An' you been patient an' ain't been in my hair lately. Which reminds me I ain't been full paid yet for my brand. I got the dollar. Haven't quite felt like claimin' the handshake 'fore now." He leaned forward, reaching to take the hand extended quickly to him.
"A fine time for it," said Winslow. "I certainly feel easier about this whole proposition than I did a while back. The range is stocked, the ranch operating. I even begin to understand your feeling about the men. I think you said we might he able to make a shipment this fall and start getting back some of that money. It seems to me you have your problems licked."
"There you go," said Cal. "Disappointin' me again. Showin' you don't know as much as a knee-high youngster raise out here. Problems licked? Why, we ain't even really start on 'em. We got about half a dozen water holes to develop so the damn cows won't walk off that money you're worried about gettin' to drink. We got about ten mile of drift fence to put up to the east there that'll be our soft spot come winter. The grant's been regarded as open range for quite a spell an' we'll be busy separatin' a lot of people from that notion. Expect some won't separate easy. There's nesters an' two-by-four ranchers aroun' the edges that'll be seeing what they can get away with an' thinkin' up ways of tryin' to keep our calf crop low. We'll have to do some more separatin' on them. You ever see one of them sudden rains come whoopin' down arroyos like Noah's flood, an' making bog holes from here to Christmas? You ever been caught in one of them blizzards this country can throw out of them mountains when it gets to feelin' mean? I could keep talkin' till your ears dropped off but that'll give you some idea. The real work's just startin'."
Cal Brennan looked out by the other buildings and on over the big land. In the small stout corral Monte Walsh, serene and secure in the hurricane seat, was taking the kinks and wild-eyed notions out of a seeming whirlwind that was a thick-rumped little sorrel that had never felt a cinch before. In the bigger corral beyond, Chet Rollins, rope in hand, was looking over a dozen or more equally wild-eyed horses for the next likely candidate. A half mile beyond two men raced forward, rocking in saddles and yipping, Powder Kent and Dally Johnson betting as usual their quarters of Skimpy Eagen's evening pie which would get in first. Off to the east a dust cloud floated upward that would be Hat Henderson standing in a bouncing wagon that had carried posts and wire, to the line, yelling to the team to get a move on in the direction of food, likely exchanging insults with Petey Williams cavorting in saddle alongside. Off to the west by the mountains a thin spiral of smoke drifted above the first showings of timber that would be the campfire of Shorty Austin and Jumping Joe Joslin and Sugar Wyman who were building a line cabin for later winter use. And down from the long low ridge fronting the mountains jogged two others, that seeming incongruous pair, the slim deadly compactness of Dobe Chavez and the barrel bulk of Sunfish Perkins.
Cal rubbed a hand down one cheek and over his chin. "I reckon you're right after all," he said. "We're in good shape. We got the makin's."
* * *
"Absolutely the most astonishing performance I ever saw anywhere. You won't believe me-I can tell from your manner you don't believe half of what I've been telling you about that western trip. But it happened. It most certainly did. The train had been crawling, just crawling, all day. Dull. You have no idea how dull. And monotonous. The country out there takes your breath away at first--and then it puts you to sleep. Always more and then more and then more of the same. Too much of it. You can't take it all in so finally you stop trying. I was in the last car--it was a tremendous train, three whole cars. I was sitting on the back platform--observation platform they called the dinky thing--and there was another man there too. I think we both had retired there to escape another man, an insufferable bore, in the car. Then the train stopped. They are always stopping out there on a siding to let one from the other direction go past. But this time we were on the edge of a small town. I suppose you'd have to call it a town although it was only a hit-or-miss collection of what looked like mud huts and a few wooden buildings that seemed about ready to fall down. And quite a few big pens along the tracks full of cattle. Except for one pen that had several dozen horses in it. And another that was empty--of animals I mean because there were a dozen or so men in it. They seemed to be in two groups. Arguing. Amazing how people out there are always arguing--and usually ending up making some kind of wager and putting everything they own on it. These men must have been arguing about those horses because they lassoed one and brought it into the pen with them and put a saddle on it and while two men held it one from one group mounted and when they let go the horse went positively mad, jumping all over the pen. That man sat there in the saddle as if he were in an easy chair and with the horse cavorting all over the pen he took out a paper and some tobacco and rolled a cigarette. And took out a match and cupped his hands and-
"No, no. That isn't what I mean. That was just a beginning. A curtain-raiser, so to speak. That man lit the cigaret all right. But when he jumped down those in the other group didn't appear to think much of what he had done a
t all. They lassoed another horse out of the other pen and it took four men to hold this one while they put a saddle on it. Then one of the second group mounted. He was tall and lean and when he moved he looked like he'd been made out of a piece a spring steel. He did it so fast I didn't see him moving. On second he was standing by the horse and the next second was in the saddle and the four men who had been holding were jumping away. If that first horse was mad, this one was simply insane. It was all over the place and up in the air most of the time. And this man sat there just as easy as had th other man--and then he started doing it. What I mean. He took off his hat and threw it away and a shorter solid-lookin man ran and grabbed it. He took off his cartridge belt with its gun and tossed that and the shorter man grabbed it. Then off came one boot. Then the other boot. With the horse cavorting around like a skyrocket all the time. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed that away too. Now don't as me how he did it, but his pants came off too. His pants. He was sitting in the saddle in his long underwear. And socks. Then the socks came off too. About this time the other man on the platform with me had had enough. Disgusting, he said, and went inside the car. But I noticed later he was right by a window on that side ...
"Did that man finish the job? Right down to the skin? don't know. Right about then the train started to move on But the last I saw he had one arm out of that underwear an was working on the other arm. Knowing the way people are out there in that country, I rather think he did."
In Harmony
1882
THE HORSE ROSE in the air, spine arched, and switched ends and came down stiff-legged. Monte Walsh, easy in the saddle, took the jolt with a grunt and raked the wet flanks with his spurs. The horse doubled its forelegs under and rocked down on its side and Monte stepped out of the saddle going down. "That won't get you nowheres," he said. The horse bent its head backwards and rolled the white of an eye at him. It lunged to its feet and Monte stepped into the saddle coming up. The horse stood, head hanging, legs braced.