Monte Walsh

by Les Weil

  The desk man stiffened on his chair, swelling within vest and coat, afflicted with a need to offset the vast looming presence of Hat Henderson, to assert some command over the situation. "I know all right," he said. "Maybe I'm beginning to know too much how things are handled out here. Eighteen ... hundred . . . dollars. Why, that's an outrage. I can tell you that as soon as I'm back East, I'll have the company lawyers onto this. Those responsible will have to pay. And I demand an explanation."

  "What he means," the armchair man said, "is he wants to know what happened. You tell him, Hat."

  "What for?" said Hat quietly and over on the ladder-back chair the desk man felt a small shiver run down his spine, a recognition of something intangible suddenly in the room, heyond his grasp, something between two men suddenly indifferent to his presence. intent on each other, a big dusty cowboy standing relaxed yet watchful, looking down, and a lean ageless man sitting easy and limp in an old armchair, looking up.

  "What for?" said Hat Henderson quietly. "The little dude has made up his mind already."

  "Maybe he has," the armchair man said gently. "But don't you go makin' the same mistake. I'm manager of this spread. I ain't ever let you an' the boys down yet. Now you just tell him. From the beginnin'."

  "Well-1-1-1, now," said Hat. He sank down, knees bending, until he was hunkered on his heels, balanced on his toes, rump dangerously close to his spurs, and as he sank, clearing more of the way, more of the late afternoon sunlight flowed into the room, golden and warm and reassuring. "I'd say it began with that goddamn order some company jackass sent through last month. Clean out all hosses not being used or likely to be used. That meant-" He stopped. His eyes had focused on the bottle to the left of the armchair. "Why, you lying cheating old polecat, Cal. Holding out. I thought there wasn't none of that rat poison left."

  "Wolf," said the armchair man.

  "All the same," said Hat. He rocked forward, stretching out full length, supporting his weight with his left hand on the floor, reaching with his right to take the bottle. He rocked back, hunkered on heels again. He held the bottle and regarded the small amount remaining in the bottom with disgust. He tilted the bottle and the last of the amber liquid slid down his throat. He flipped the empty bottle in an arc back and out the doorway. "I'm plumb ashamed of you, Cal," he said sadly. He hitched himself around a bit to face the desk man more directly.

  "Well-1-1, as I was saying, that fool order meant rounding up that bunch of half-wild-stuff, mostly batty old mares and maverick geldings, too mean to do much of anything with, that'd been roaming the canyon country south of here. I reckon maybe they was chewing up grass that might carry a few more cows but they wasn't doing nobody any harm. Just hiding out there an' enjoying life and Cal here had to be so goddamned honest an' put 'em in that stock tally you called for last year. So, natural to some folks, some peeculiar kind of folks, that gives somebody a notion. Clean 'em out. Sell 'em off. Squeeze out a shade more profit for folks that don't really need-"

  "Certainly," said the desk man, feeling better, asserting himself by interrupting. "That makes sense. Get rid of poor stock to make way for better. At the same time realize what you can on assets otherwise useless. That's good business."

  "Well-1-1-1, now," said Hat. "You can call it good business if your mind runs that way. I call it a hell of a tough job I got to do. Rough country over that way. All broke up and

  full of thorn thickets. An' them hosses was worse'n wild ones. Knew too blamed much about men an' ropes an' such. When Cal sprung that little notion on me, I thought he was kidding. Shooting's the way to get rid of them things, I says. If they got to be got rid of. No, he says, this order says shipped and sold. Well-1-1, when a job's got to be done, it's got to be done. I took four of the boys, all I could spare at the time, and went after them things. Jeeeesus! We had us a time! They wasn't hosses. They was crosses atween anteelopes an' mountain goats. An' mean. Spooky as she-bears with cubs. Took us all one day an' half the next combing 'em out of them thickets. Not much sleep 'cause we had to hold what we had already and they was ready to take off any time. We wore down two good saddle hosses apiece gathering them things n' holding 'em. Took us all the rest that second day to get 'em to that little old broke-down corral out on the flats that ain't been used in years. Only about five mile but they didn't have no herd sense. Too mean, I reckon. When they broke and they broke often, it'd be in all directions at the oncet. I'm telling you, mister, me an' the boys did some riding. But we got 'em there, every last one of the fool things, forty-three it was, an' we hazed 'em into that corral. Patched it up some where it was broke an' just flopped on the ground for some shut-eye."

  Hat Henderson sighed. His voice became plaintive. Maybe you got another bottle stashed away somewheres, Cal? I ain't talked this much since the last time."

  "Too bad," said the armchair man. "Wolves are all dead."

  "Sure," said Hat. "Sure, Cal. But that's what you was saying before." He shifted attention again to the desk man. "Well-1-1-1, come morning we fixed to shove 'em along some wore. You can believe it or not, mister, but them things was so ornery they wouldn't come out. Couple of us had to go into that little old corral an' haze 'em out and the moment they was out they was breaking in all directions. But we bunched an' we started 'em moving right. We was heading for that corral an' shipping pens over on that spur line of the Santy Fee. We get 'em there an' we'd have 'em. An' they was get some better. They was learning some. Sure, they wasn't traveling too good. They'd run like rabbits for a stretch an' we'd be scuttering to hold 'em together. Then they'd stop an' balk an' mill around and we'd have to shove 'em even into walk an' sudden they'd be running again an' the same stunt over an' over. But they was staying bunched more. We could breathe a mite easier. An' then ..."

  * * *

  They came over the last rise sloping down a half mile the thin tracery of tracks, sharp against the clean cloudle blue of the big sky of the big land, forty-three batty d mares and maverick geldings and five tired men on five tough little worn weary cow ponies. Almost directly below them was the splotch of posts and rails and plank chutes that were corral and shipping pens. Off to the right the tracks led into distances merging into distances, fading at last into far horizon. Off to the left the tracks led into and were lost in a range of low humped hills. Well back into the hills a thin fraying streamer of gray smoke floated upward.

  The horses, trotting over the rise, slowed on the down slope, stopped, staring ahead at the pens. The dust of the movement, drifting forward, caught up with them, swirling slowly and rising to blot out some of the blue of the sky. The voice of Hat Henderson lifted out of the dust from behi the bunched herd. "Easy now. Easy does it. Sunfish, you slip on ahead there an' open the gate."

  A shape emerged from the left of the dust cloud, the thick barrel body of Sunfish Perkins sweat-sodden in saddle on ratty flop-eared gray, swinging out and forward, loping do toward the corral. From out of the cloud where he had been broke three riderless horses, heads high, sniffing at open distance. From thirty feet away, lost in the cloud, came the grunt of a horse hit hard with spurs. Into the open streak another shape, the slender compactness of Dobe Chavez erect in saddle on a scrubby stout-rumped roan already full gallop, swooping in swift headlong rush to intercept the three and drive them back.

  From the right of the herd, drifting through the dust, came the cheerful voice of Monte Walsh. "Ain't that a pretty sight down there? Almost time to be celebrating. We ain't lost one and the corral's right ahead. Makes a man feel good most like when a woman says yes."

  "They ain't in there yet," came the voice of Chet Rollins from somewhere near.

  "Quit yapping," came the voice of Hat Henderson. "An move 'em along. Easy. Easy."

  Slowly the herd in its slowly swirling dust cloud began move down the slope, the horses stepping gingerly, reluctant knowing. Sunfish Perkins was back in position on the left. The herd began to pick up speed, the leaders trotting, begining to push out beyond the dust cloud. Fas
ter, into a lope, and the mass of moving animals was plunging into a gallop, fanning out, pushing out to the sides, seeking to split to right and left of the cluster of pens and corral. Five men on five tough even more knowing cow ponies raced with the herd,

  sweeping, swerving without a break in rushing headlong stride, closing it in, aiming for the angled pocket made by the pens along the tracks and the much bigger corral jutting out. The herd thudded into the pocket, brought up short against the pen rails, a milling mass of squealing, kicking horses, hemmed in by five men in an arc out around them.

  "Jeeeesus!" rose the voice of Hat Henderson as he slid his chunky bay to a stop on its rump. Two scrawny rawboned geldings had made it past the outer corner of the corral and were hightailing for faraway places. "Maybe we better let them two go!"

  "Let 'em go, helll" yelled Monte Walsh. The words seemed to be floating in empty air. Long lean-hipped body forward in saddle atop his leggy dun, he was already jumps away, spinning around the corral corner, lining out after the two. The leggy dun sretched out like an oversize jackrabbit, as dedicated as the man in the saddle. It soared over a wide clump of tipthrust cactus, disdaining to swerve aside. It drove in angling across the course of the two geldings and they braked on sliding hoofs and shifted across its rump to strike dodging in another direction. It reared in stride, pawing at sky, and pivoted on taut hindlegs and lit streaking after the two. It drove in on them again.

  "Yow-ee!" yelled Monte Walsh, slapping across the nose of the nearer with coiled rope in hand. "That won't get you nowheres!" The two swung, slowing, disgusted, and trotted back toward the others with Monte and the dun triumphant behind.

  Chet Rollins shifted a bit in saddle atop his thick-necked black and looked at Monte.

  "You'll break a leg someday doing that," he said, amiable, conversational.

  "Shucks," said Monte. "What's a leg? I got two, ain't I?"

  The herd, hemmed in the wide angle, was quieting now, beginning to accept the inevitable. The gate along the near side of the corral stood wide open, swung all the way back, but no horse showed any interest in the opening.

  "All right," said Hat Henderson. "Close in. They ain't got a chance now an' they know it."

  Careful, alert, five men on five tough little cow ponies began to move in, crowding the herd closer into the pocket, closer to the gateway. Two old mares were jostled almost into the opening. They looked in, deliberate, reluctant. They took a few steps forward, resigned, ready, and were inside and the others were shifting to follow.

  Off to the left where the tracks snaked out of the low range of hills a streamer of dark gray smoke drifted upwar and a whitish vapor floated over the last hill. Into view, along the track, chugging steadily into the strain, came a small locomotive followed by the wood-piled tender, nine freigh cars, and a caboose. In the locomotive cab the engineer sat relaxed on his stool, elbow on right window edge, head out o the window. A slow smile spread on his ruddy rough-featured face. "Hey," he said for the benefit of the fireman in the rear door of the cab. "Let's have a little fun." He reached up and took hold of the whistle cord.

  SCREEEEEEEEEE!

  Ahead, at the cluster of pens and corral, forty-three batty dry mares and maverick geldings exploded into sudden simultaneous action.

  "Wow!" said the engineer, staring ahead in fascination The fireman crowded behind him to push his own head out the window for his own view. Several horses were leapin across the tracks ahead. Instinctive, unthinking, the enginee pulled again on the whistle cord.

  Ahead, at the cluster of pens and corrals, five men, two still rocking in saddles on pitching cow ponies, three stretched at odd angles on the ground with heads lifted watched forty-three batty dry mares and maverick gelding heading for the horizon in forty-three different directions.

  "We better move along fast," said the fireman softly. Go past there quick as we can."

  The engineer said nothing. He was busy with the throttle.

  Ahead, moving now in instant silent simultaneous decision away from the pens and corral, five men advanced purpose fully toward the approaching train, Monte Walsh in the lead on his leggy dun, Chet Rollins a few jumps back on his thick-necked black, Sunfish Perkins laboring behind on his own short thick legs, Hat Henderson limping, stumbling hobbling, hopping, Dobe Chavez pushing up from the ground and taking a step and collapsing down and grimacing under his trim dark mustache and crawling on hands and knees.

  Monte Walsh reached the oncoming train and the dun reared, pivoting on hindlegs, and raced beside it. Monte loosened feet in stirrups and took hold of the saddlehorn and hopped up, crouching with feet on saddle, and dove through the side door of the locomotive cab and the dun swerved aside, slowing. Monte reappeared almost at once, heaved out on the rebound by the fireman, but one hand was clenched on the fireman's belt and the fireman came with him. They lit hard, rolling over and over, hammering at each other as they rolled.

  Chet Rollins had swung and was racing beside the locomotive. His coiled rope was in his left hand, a loop forming in his right hand. His right arm flashed and the loop dropped over the locomotive smokestack. The thick-necked black lowered its head and swung away, shoulders slugging into the sudden strain coming. The rope tautened with a jerk and the locomotive shuddered and rocked a bit on the tracks and the black flew off its feet and Chet pushed out and away and the black hit the ground, squirming and kicking and dragged, and the smokestack ripped loose and fell clattering down the side of the locomotive to the trackside. A shower of sparks rose and descended over the cab and the high hissing of escaping steam sounded and inside the cab the engineer threw back the throttle and jammed on the brakes. The train slid smoking and steaming to a stop.

  Back at the rear end and in rapid order five trainmen hopped down the steps of the caboose. They stood in a group staring forward. Up at the locomotive the engineer peered out the side door and jumped to the ground. He waved at the five and started to shout. His voice was cut short in his throat. The hatless battered chunky shape of Chet Rollins had hurtled into him from behind.

  Back by the caboose one of the trainmen leaned in over the steps reaching for something. The other four started forward. Monte Walsh, bruised and scratched and cinder­stained, rose from the trackside, leaving the fireman limp and finished, and moved purposefully to meet them. They converged on him in a rush.

  "I'm coming, Monte," bellowed Sunfish Perkins, poundin in. He lowered his head and plunged forward and at the last instant turned sideways at the waist so that one thick shoulder jutted out and the full weight of his barrel body crashed into the melee. One of the trainmen, three ribs cracked, staggered away and sank down moaning and hitched himself further away.

  "Save some for me," boomed Hat Henderson, hobbling hopping, diving in.

  The fifth trainman was there now, a monkey wrench in hi right hand. He skipped about looking for a chance. He saw one and swung. The wrench thudded in a glancing blow or bone. Sunfish Perkins sagged and collapsed out of the melee dazed, head wobbling.

  A gun roared and the man with the monkey wrench dropped it and spun halfway around and clutched with his left hand at his right shoulder and sat down suddenly, all fight out of him.

  "Ees a nasty man," said Dobe Chavez from forty feet away on the ground, slipping his gun back into its holster. H started crawling forward again. He was close to the whirling melee. He heaved forward and his arms swept around a pair of legs.

  Dust and cinders flew and the cinders fell and the dust floated gently in the air and the sun of early afternoon lay soft and golden over the big land and over the remnants of fast furious action along the side of a stopped crippled trains. Silence settled over the scene. By the trackside, a few cars from the caboose, five trainmen reclined in varied position on the ground showing no inclination to rise. A short distance away, down the slight embankment, the fireman raised his head and sat up and seemed to regard that as sufficient exertion for the moment.

  Close by the five trainmen Dobe Chavez sat on
th ground, leaning forward, investigating his right ankle. A few feet away Sunfish Perkins also sat on the ground, exploring with cautious fingers one side of his head. Monte Walsh leaned against a freight car, chest slowly heaving, combing with blunt curved fingers multitudinous cinders out of his hair. Hat Henderson stood on the slight embankment with weight balanced chiefly on one leg, looking down at th bloody knuckles of one hand.

  He raised his head. "There must of been another one," he said. "That goddamned engineer. Where'd he go?"

  "Coming," said Monte. "Chet took care of him."

  Down the trackside, along the train, came the engineer, face splotched, one leg dragging a bit, sullen, disgusted, coming in little spurts as shoved from behind by Chet Rollins. He stopped, was permitted to stop, about ten feet away facing Hat.

  "You didn't keep it fair," he said. "I heard shooting."

  Dobe Chavez looked up, tight-lipped, eyes ominous. Monte Walsh took two steps and kicked at a monkey wrench on the ground. "One of your boys had that thing," said Hat Henderson.

  The engineer stared down at the monkey wrench. "I see," he said. He sighed. "I hope you understand I got my own notion of him now."

  "How was I to know?" said one of the trainmen from the ground, left hand tight on right shoulder. "I thought maybe it was a holdup."

  "They'd of had their guns out, stupid," said the engineer. He sighed again. "An' what in holy hell am I going to do now? Stuck out here with this train. Can't get any decent draft with no stack. Leaking steam too. I couldn't budge the thing.

  "Unhook," said Chet Rollins. "Leave the cars here."

  "Yeah," said the engineer. "Maybe I could creep along. But you know what that means? It's twenty miles to the mainline, ten more to the yard. Supposing I get another engine. There's no place to turn around out here. I got to hack the whole damn distance. Whyn't one of you ride to the operator at the mainline so he can wire for a repair crew?"