Monte Walsh

by Les Weil

  Hat Henderson stiffened. "There ain't a one of my men doing any riding for any railroad," he said. "I don't give a hoot in hell what you got to do. We got our own troubles."

  "Yeah," said the engineer. A wry grin of remembrance flicked on his face. "I reckon you do." He sighed again and waved savagely at his men to come along and started away toward the front of the train.

  Five dirty dusty disheveled battered cowboys watched six equally dirty dusty disheveled and even more battered trainmen move away, two of them leaning on others, stopping briefly to collect the fireman. They saw them stop by the tender and fuss, cursing, with the coupling, and climb or be helped one by one into the cab. The wisps of smoke floating above the locomotive began to increase and faintly they could hear the rising hiss of steam. Slowly, groaning and grunting in short puffs, the locomotive and tender crept into motion, moving slowly away.

  Hat Henderson raised his head higher and looked around. Not far from where the locomotive had been a leggy dun and a thick-necked black with trailing rope cropped patiently at the few tufts of bunch grass along the edge of the slight embankment. On near the pens and corral a chunky bay and a ratty flop-eared gray and a stout-rumped roan were engaged in the same occupation. Hat Henderson looked down. "Sunfish," he said.

  "How's that head?"

  "I sure know I got one," said Sunfish. "But that,won't bother my riding."

  "Dobe," said Hat. "What's with that leg?"

  "Thees ankle," said Dobe Chavez, "he won't work. But, ees nothing on the horse."

  Hat Henderson drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. "Chet," he said. "And you, Monte. Bring the hosses over here. We got forty-three fool critters to find."

  The sun was low in the western sky, ready to drop behind the ragged edging of mountains in the distance, sending its soft golden light through the open doorway all the way to the flat top of the onetime rolltop desk.

  "Well-1-1, now," said Hat Henderson. He rose slowly to full height, blotting out some of the sunlight, making shadow and the looming feel of his presence reach across the desk. "It wasn't too bad. Course Dobe's hoss had a pulled shoulder that must of happened when those critters hit us. He just stayed there an' kept an eye on that corral an' handled the gate while the rest of us brought 'em in in little bunches, seeing as they was scattered so. But they was some tired too.

  They hadn't broke more'n four-five mile around. We combed 'em out here an' there an' brought 'em in. All of 'em, but for one fool mare that must of caught a foot crossing the tracks an' broke a leg an' was hobbling along the other side of the cars. We was back at the ranch here along about midnight. Train was gone when we took 'em some feed next day but you can bet your bankroll, mister, that corral wasn't touched any. Cal here had some cars along there next day and they was shipped out"

  Hat Henderson turned slightly to look down at the arm­chair man, who simply shook his head a little and beckoned with it toward the door. Quietly, accompanied by the soft jingle of rusty old spurs, Hat Henderson went out the open doorway.

  The desk man hitched his chair some to escape the sunlight now loosed again directly toward him. He peered at the doorway. There was no one in sight outside. He put his hands on the desk edge and braced himself against them. "Good Lord, man!" he said.

  "Why were no warrants sworn out? Wrecking a train! Shooting a man!"

  "Shucks," said the armchair man. "This is still hoss an' cow country. Not a judge around that'd issue a warrant on a thing like that" He regarded his empty glass and twisted it slowly in his fingers. "No sheriff that'd try an' serve it neither. Specially with Dobe an' that gun of his here, nursin' a bad ankle."

  "Good Lord," said the desk man, staring at the other. He rallied. "Maybe that's a good thing. If a trial got started the company might be dragged into it. As things are, I'd say the company is clear enough."

  "No," said the armchair man gently. "The company's payin'."

  The desk man jerked on his chair. "Nonsense," he snapped. He leaned back and pursed his lips and began rubbing the thumb of his right hand up and down across his fingers. He waited. The armchair man sat still and relaxed, regarding his empty glass.

  "Well, yes," the desk man said. "I can see they had provocation. I can sympathize with them, I must say. But being provoked doesn't give them the right to start taking things apart and committing assault and battery. When they cut loose like that, that was their own doing. The company would never have approved. They are personally responsible. They will have to pay."

  "On forty a month?" said the armchair man. "Out of the which they got to get clothin' an' gear?"

  "That is their problem," said the desk man, accent pronounced. "Things might go smoother out in this country if people thought about such things before they cut loose. Oh, I can sympathize with them again, but it is their problem. Do you realize, man, that the company only received six hundred thirty dollars for that batch of horses? Think of the loss if the company paid."

  "A nice little nibble, yes," said the armchair man.

  "I'll tell you what I will do," said the desk man. "I'll have the company lawyers help them. You know, whittle it down for them. Counter claims for that horse that broke a leg, for time lost, for injuries to our men. Things like that."

  "No," said the armchair man gently. "You don't understand this thing atall. The boys had the best of it. They tromped on that train crew right thorough. That means there's got to be no quibblin'. Payment in full."

  The desk man stared at the other, eyes narrowed. "They can be fools about it if they want to," he said. "But I won't. That's what the company pays me for. To look after its interests. It has other interests too, you know, many more. When it sends me out here it trusts me to see that the affairs of this ranch are being handled in businesslike manner. To protect its investment. Well, as I see this, those men had to have their--what you call--fun. Now they'll have to pay for it."

  "Oh, they'll pay all right," the armchair man said gently, very gently. "My boys'll pay if I put it to them. They'll get together, them that was in on it an' them that wasn't, an' they'll hock all they've got if they have to, except of course their saddles. An' they'll pay. But that'll be mighty expensive for the company."

  "Expensive?" said the desk man. "For the company?"

  "Why, sure," said the armchair man. "Come the next day there won't be a rider anywheres on this whole damn spread. The boys'll be gone. Cookie too."

  The desk man jerked on his chair. He slapped one hand on the desk top. "Well, then, you'd just have to get busy and hire more men."

  "Maybe I could," said the armchair man. "If I scratched around hard enough. But not like these boys. There ain't a one that ain't worth two of the usual run. But, anyways, I wouldn't be doin' it. I'd be gone too."

  "Oh, no, you wouldn't," said the desk man quickly. "We have you on a contract."

  "Contract?" said the armchair man gently. "What in hell d'you think that contract'd mean to me? If I wasn't tryin' to be polite, I'd tell you what you could do with it."

  "Blackmail," said the desk man slowly. "That's what it is. A kind of blackmail."

  "Call it anything you've a mind to," said the armchair man. "But you're thinkin' of this thing in terms of laws an' business rules an' the like. An' I'm tellin' you those things don't come into it atall." He regarded the empty glass sadly and reached over the right arm of the chair and set it on the floor. He leaned forward some, his back straightening a bit. "The boys've been talkin' about this, gettin' themselves sort of worked up over it, an' I've been hearin' 'em. They don't go by reasonin'. They go by feelin'. An' they have right good feelin's. They been proud of the company, of this outfit. Proud to be workin' for it. They ain't quite bright enough to understand the reason it's somethin' to be proud of is the work they been doin' for it, what they've made of it. They just been proud. They've made the Slash Y brand an' the boys that carry that iron mean plenty everywheres cowmen still ride bosses an' swing a loop. Not the biggest outfit on the ranges. Maybe not even the best.
But a good one. A right good one. Those boys of mine'd stand up an' slug it out or go for their guns against any man or bunch of men that'd say a word against it. They ain't pretty but there ain't a job I tell 'em to do they don't do an' do right. Like that damnfool order. They penned those hosses spite of all the Santy Fee could do. I send 'em eight hundred miles with a herd of cows like last year to Wyomin' an' shorthanded too 'cause you or the company or both won't let me put on more men an' come hell an' highwater an' thievin' Indians an' a bunch of run-off rustlers they deliver. Every last cow except three that died of bloat. Alkali water. An' they bring back the money. Every last dollar of it except what they draw on their regular pay for some spreein' along the way back."

  The desk man stared at the other, his lips pursed, pushing in and out. The armchair man leaned forward a bit more, his back straightening more. "An' they don't punch no clocks," he said. "They're workin' for the company twenty-four hours out of every day except when they're raisin' a little fun in town an' if I holler they'll quit that an' come a-foggin' into anything no matter what the clock says. They're ready any time, all the time, night like day, to give the company all the sweat an' muscle an' downright guts an' savvy with hosses an' cows they've got, includin' their necks if that's called for like one of them did on that Wyomin' trip. That's what they're puttin' in. For forty a month an' the feelin' of bein' proud without lettin' that show too much. What's the company puttin' in? Money, that's all. An' this little thing right now is a matter of a little money. They been proud of this outfit. They'd like to keep on feelin' that way an' they'll stick with it long as they do. They feel they done right well by it over at the pens. There was five of them. There was seven of them trainmen, not mentionin' a train. They feel if the company's what they been feelin' it is, it ought to come through for them once in a long while when they're in a tight."

  The desk man sat still, very still. He had the look of a man confronting some calamity and powerless to stop it. "And you," he said slowly. "You feel the same way?"

  "Yes," said the armchair man. "I got the same feelin's. I growed up with 'em. The rest of the fool world can go to hell in a hand basket but I ain't changin' 'em any." He rose out of the armchair, lean body unfolding to full height. "I've said my say an' I feel some better even if I ain't made a dent in you. Reckon I'll go tell the boys to start gatherin' their gear." He moved toward the doorway. "Wait a minute," said the desk man. He saw the other stop, turn back some, and stand, quiet, alert, waiting. He sat straight upright on his ladder-back chair and began rubbing

  his right hand forward and back on his right thigh in the tight-bulged pin-stripe trousers.

  "You put me in a difficult position," he said. "I might as well tell you that some of the directors think highly of you as manager of this ranch. The men leave and I know what they'd say. What I did. Hire some more. But you leave and they'd be onto me hard. Good Lord, it could cost me my own job. What the devil do you expect me to do? I'm not one of your hell-raising tromping shooting boys. I'm just a city man with a good head for figures. But I have my own pride too. My figures are honest. I can't go slipping in things like wolf poison and repairs to a windmill in my report. Not eighteen hundred dollars worth. I probably couldn't get away with it anyway. Can't we just sit here and figure this out some way?"

  "It's all figured," said the armchair man gently. "I don't give a hoot in hell how you put it down. That's your problem. Maybe I can sympathize with you some like you with the boys. But it's your problem. To me an' the others you're the company. You're the one comes out here regular. What you do is what we'll go by. We ain't interested much in how you do it."

  "Good Lord," said the desk man. "But I can't see now how I'll do it."

  "But you'll do it," said the armchair man gently, affectionately. His voice rose with an edging of urging, almost of command. "Come along, Platt, an' we'll just tell the boys."

  Slowly, reluctantly, the desk man pushed together the papers on the desk top and restored them to his inside coat pocket and picked up his small pad and pencil and put them in a side pocket. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached with his left hand and took the derby. Nerving himself to it, he rose to his medium plumpish height and came out around the desk and up alongside the armchair man. A lean arm reached and urged him on ahead, out the doorway, on the short distance to the edge of the veranda.

  Along the front edge, to either side, out of range of vision from inside through the doorway, sat nine silent men. About fifteen feet away to the left another lounged easy in saddle on a drooping leggy dun. Still another, with long once-white cloth tied around his waist and dropping down over worn old boots, was coming from the cookhouse.

  In the soft luminous dusk, legacy of the sun now below the far ragged edging of mountains, the desk man was painfully aware of eleven men regarding him gravely.

  "Platt here," said the armchair man softly, cheerfully, "is going to take care of that little Santy Fee affair."

  The desk man was even more painfully aware of eleven men regarding him gravely. He could sense the final, the complete, the absolute necessity of irretrievable speech.

  "I'll ... I'll do my best for you boys," he said.

  He tried to recoil from the veranda edge but the armchair man was behind him, blocking him. The soft luminous dusk was live and vociferous with leaping shapes and back-slap­pings and high shrill yells. A higher shriller "Yow-eee!" climbed out of it. A voice emerged: "That's plenty good enough! You savvy those eastern dudes! You can do it!"

  He tried to recoil again. A leggy dun seemed to be leaping straight at him, enormous in the dusk. It reared, almost pawing the veranda roof, and dropped down sideways in front of him. He looked up, terrified, into a lean still-battered youngish face. "Put out a hand," said Monte Walsh. "I've a hankering to shake it." Solemnly Monte leaned down and took the limp band and shook. "I'll drive you to town," he said. "Guarantee to get you there by stage time."

  "Good Lord, no!" gasped the desk man, shuddering.

  "Move along, Monte," came the voice of Chet Rollins. "It's my turn."

  The dun leaped away under spurs and spun, stopping, to stay close to the proceedings. A line had been forming behind its previous position. One by one nine cowboys with the dust of the day's work on them and a ranch cook, redolent of grease and smoke, stepped forward to reach for the desk man's right hand.

  He winced. His fingers were being crushed in a big hand. "You're all right, Plug-Hat," said Hat Henderson.

  * * *

  Between the shafts of the buckboard the bony flea-bitten gray jogged forward, betraying its range ancestry by the easy nonchalance with which it ate into the miles of the big land in steady self-chosen unvarying rhythm. Far behind, faint and sinking into distance, were the first evening lights of the range headquarters of the Consolidated Cattle Company.

  The desk man held the reins in his left hand. He had no illusion that he was doing much driving. The bay would go where it would go and that would be to town and the livery stable without any assistance from him. He wriggled the fingers of his right hand. They seemed to be all there and intact. He reached with them to fix the derby more firmly on his head. "Plug-Hat," he said softly. "Plug-Hat Platt."

  He settled into what seemed to be the least uncomfortable position possible on the jouncing seat of the buckboard. "Good Lord," he said even more softly. "What a way to do business."

  * * *

  "Did Monte get took that time? Ye-as, I should up an' say he did. Rolled out flatter'n a blue-corn tortilla. Some of us was in town for this or that which don't matter nohow an' there was this little scrub feller with a fair-looking hoss. Drunk? Was that feller drunk? Ye-as, he was so drunk it sloshed around in him like water in a rain barrel. An' was he talking big. An' aiming most of it at Monte. How that hoss of his could beat most anything else inhabiting hoss-hair. He was such a harmless-looking helpless little hunk of meat that some of us tried to hush him. Seemed a shame for anybody to take advantage of him. But no, he just talked bigger, pesterin
g away at Monte. So, nat'ral-like, Monte took him on. To shut him up much as anything else. Nothing to it. The feller's hoss was fast enough but that dun of Monte's, like always when he starts talking in its ear, just settled to it an' Monte was sitting there waiting at the finish line when the feller got there. Did he pay up? Ye-as, he paid up like a good little feller an' admitted the drinks was on him. An' then be blowed if he didn't start talking worse'n before. Saying he'd been beat fair enough but it was only square he get a chance to make it even. Saying Monte owed that to him. Saying he was disappointed in that hoss of his an' he knew now it couldn't beat Monte's hoss but by gollies he bet he could beat Monte if they was to run a race on their own two legs. Laugh? Was that worth a laugh? Ye-as, I should stand up an' say it was. That scrub little feller wibble-wobbling around alongside Monte with those long legs of his. Did he mean it? Ye-as, he meant it so serious he was wanting to bet his whole roll, what was left of it. Upshot was the teller pestered at Monte so persistent Monte got some peeved an' said if anybody was so blamed anxious to get rid of money he guessed he'd just have to take it.

  "Quarter mile it was to be. Monte shed his hat an' his gun an' a vest he was wearing an' he was ready. Surprised? Was he surprised? Ye-as, I should stand here an' say he was. More surprised'n a hen that's hatched a duck. Sudden that feller wasn't near so drunk an' he started peeling hisself. Peeled off his shirt an' pants an' under 'em he had a rig something like short underwear an' his legs showed up muscle like a strong man's at a circus an' he put on some little shoes with nails sticking out the bottom an' he crouched down like a jackrabbit waiting for a flying start an' when Mac popped the gun he lit out like a small-size express train heading down a grade with a full head of steam on. Why, shucks, Monte wasn't even within hailing distance. Why, shucks again, Monte didn't even run more'n a third the way before he just quit an' came walking back disgusted. Was it a rig? Ye-as, I'm here to say it was. That feller was a crack sprinter from back east somewheres an' Sonny Jacobs'd got hold of him an' put him up to it."