by Les Weil
Hattie
1876-1886
FOUR TIMES Monte Walsh crossed trails with Harriet Kupper, known to him and all too many other men of the big land as Yellow-Hair Hattie, and anyone can make of those four times anything his own experience and inclination indicate.
The first time was at Miles City. Monte was coming twenty and full of the joy and the juices of youth and he came into Montana territory riding swing with a Cross Bar trail herd. He was paid off with the others on delivery outside Miles City and he promptly adjourned into town to demonstrate to himself and anyone interested he knew how to spend the money in approved style. In the course of a few rather active days and nights he acquired the not very satisfactory cash acquaintance of several women in Madame Rose's entertainment parlor and by way of a short sweet brawl in one of the saloons the quick friendship of a rawhide Texan known as Powder Kent.
"Money's about gone," said Powder one evening. "Let's drift. It'll be getting cold here soon anyways. Start in the morning."
And a little later that same evening Monte, with only some jingly change left in his pocket, wandered for the first time into Thompson's Red Dog Saloon thinking of nothing more than liquid refreshment and saw Hattie.
What caught his attention across the big room and its evening activities was what usually caught attention, her hair. Plenty of it and all of it a soft natural yellow, the true color of the corn tassel. She wore it piled high in a pompadour with the spangled heads of a few hairpins showing to catch the lamplight and play this over the soft yellow sheen and it did what she wanted it to do, kept attention away from the fact that her face was plain and broad, coaxed into feminine archness only by the artful use of powder and paint. She was three or four years older than Monte and looked several more than that and she was older than he would ever be in certain knowledges and deep-rooted ways, but her full figure was trim and definite in tight-waisted dress that took advantage of every curve and an effortless inviting animal warmth seemed to emanate from her.
She sat at a table with a prosperous-looking thickset man in starched white shirt and black string tie who was talking earnestly to her. She was obviously bored with the man and his talk and between routine smiles at him to cover the boredom her glance shifted around the room. It reached Monte, twenty feet away, turning his head in sudden embarrassment as he saw her looking at him, and it lingered on him, on the lean young length of him and the clean young sweep of his jaw and the hungry young vitality somehow singing in him though relaxed and motionless against the bar.
The thickset man finished his talk, pointing at the clock above the mirror behind the bar, and rose and took his coat from the back of his chair and moved through the tables toward the front doorway, past and unaware of Monte, with the air of a man of importance having important things to do. The swinging doors swished behind him and over at her table Hattie turned a bit in her chair, facing full toward Monte looking now at her again, not looking away, and her head moved, the movement barely perceptible, beckoning, and he strode through the tables toward her. He sat on the chair the man had left and he set his hat on the table and he was aware of a pulse beating in one temple, strong and insistent, and as he saw in her broad plain face something more than the tired and perhaps amused acceptance of the few women he had known in trail towns here and there he felt what he had tried hard not to feel for several years now, that he was young and shy and inadequate, and to cloak that he held his head high at a jaunty angle and looked straight at her.
"I seen you day before yesterday," she said. "Breaking that bronc for Jones at the livery stable."
"Shucks," said Monte, trying to be gallant, man of the world. "I been wasting my time. I ain't noticed you before."
"What was you thinking?" she said. "Over by the bar. Looking at me."
Monte hesitated, flushing under the sun- and wind-tan of his lean young face, and she leaned forward a little. "Tell me," she said. "Tell me straight. I want to know."
"Aw, shucks," said Monte. "I was just thinking I'd like to see it down, your hair I mean, and maybe just run my hands through it."
She sat back and a slight smile showed. "That's the nicest thing," she said, "any man ever said to me. Did you really think it?"
"Yes ma'am," said Monte. "And I'm thinking it again right now."
The slight smile held on her face. "Was that all you thought?" she said.
"No," said Monte. "No ma'am. That wasn't all." He could no longer meet her eyes and he squirmed on his chair. "Damn oh damn oh damn," he murmured, reaching for his hat.
"Wait," she said. "What's wrong?"
"Aw, shucks," said Monte. "I ain't got much more'n a dollar. Maybe not that. Chickenfeed." He started to rise.
"Wait," she said again. She leaned forward again, voice low. "Freddie's coming back at eleven, that's nearly two hours. You go out front here and slip around back. Thompson don't need to know. Whatever you have, that'll be enough."
And Monte, around back, feeling that pulse beat in his temple, saw the rear door open and Yellow-Hair Hattie step out, closing the door behind her, and she led along an alley past several small cabins to another of them and opened the door and moved on in. He stood in the doorway and saw a match spurt and a lamp be lit, low, dimly lighting the one front room with its old dresser and glinting brass bed, casting a faint glow on into the small kitchen beyond. He closed the door and fumbled to turn the old key in the lock, feeling again incredibly young and shy and inadequate, and as he swung slowly around from the door what he saw in the broad plain face regarding him gravely from under the piled soft yellow sheen in the lamplight annihilated all else but the immediate moment and he moved toward her, all male and confident in his maleness and ageless and more than adequate.
Later he stood motionless in dark shadow along the alley and watched the thickset man come through the rear doorway of the Red Dog and walk briskly to the cabin and rap softly and the cabin door open and the man enter and the door close. He stood there a few moments, gnawing on a knuckle, and he strode away and found Powder Kent rolled in blanket back of the livery stable and stirred him awake with one foot.
"You was playing poker," said Monte. "You win anything?"
"Twelve dollars," said Powder. "Enough to feed us a while moving south."
"Give me ten," said Monte. "We're staying another day. Me anyway."
"Aw, what the hell," said Powder. "You young ones sure stay itchy. All right, one more day." He was scrounging around under the blanket and one hand emerged, reaching up, holding a crumpled ten-dollar bill with one corner gone.
And the next evening, early, Monte was in the Red Dog and he talked briefly with Hattie, all male and dominant in his maleness, and later he stood by the bar, apparently interested only in the drink in his hand, and watched Hattie talk to the thickset man and send him away disappointed and perhaps angry and only a very little later Monte stood again by the rear door and Hattie came out and together they went to her cabin.
Time passed in the slow swinging hours of night and the first shimmers of dawn were sweeping up the sky when the cabin door opened and Monte Walsh, clad only in pants and socks, stepped out on the little doorstep and stretched, long and lazy, like a lean young animal. Hattie appeared in the doorway behind him, wrapped in an old kimono, broad plain face soft and relaxed and sleepy in frame of long loose hair the color of the corn tassel. Faint and far off a rooster crowed and Monte turned to her with a low chuckle sounding in his throat and he ran his hands through her hair over her shoulders and down her back, pressing her to him, and he stepped back bending some and scooped her up in his arms and eased through the doorway sideways holding her and on in, closing the door with one heel behind him.
And later, with the first direct light of the sun slipping under the curtains of the side window, he stood in the middle of the front room, in pants and socks again, bending to pull on his boots. Hattie, wrapped in the old kimono, handed him his shirt and he put this on and tucked it in. She picked up his gunbelt and stood
still, holding it, looking at him.
"Aw, shucks," said Monte. "Ma'am. Hattie. I knew anything to say, I'd say it. But Powder's waiting. We got to be riding."
"I know," she said. "Your kind is always riding on." She handed the gunbelt to him and he buckled it on. She handed him his jacket and he slipped arms into it. She handed him his hat and he set this on his head, pulling the brim down.
Her hand was out again, holding a ten-dollar bill, crumpled and with one corner gone.
"Aw, shucks," said Monte. "That's yours."
"Where'd you get it?" she said. "That friend of yours?"
"That don't make no difference," said Monte.
"You ain't going to be owing anybody because of me," she said and reached and tucked the bill in a pocket of his jacket. She managed a small smile. "It's on the house. You ain't exactly like the rest of them. You're so--you're--oh, I don't know, you're so glad to be alive."
She took his arm and moved him toward the door. "So long, cowboy," she said. "See you again sometime."
* * *
The second time was at Cheyenne. Monte was coming twenty-two, a lean length of trail hand, a match for any man in the workings of his trade, and just about all feelings of shyness and inadequacy in just about any circumstances had long since left him. He came into Wyoming territory riding point with an Eight Bar Eight herd of range cows and was paid off on delivery with the rest of the crew. This was early evening and a few miles out and they all promptly adjourned into town and bellied up to the bar at the Hempstead House as the likeliest emporium for a start on the first-night celebration.
Monte leaned back against the bar, third drink in his hand, looking lazily about. He started to raise the drink to his lips and the hand stopped halfway. Across the crowding room he saw a piled pompadour of soft yellow hair the color of the late summer corn tassel.
Some of the sheen was gone and the natural color was fading in almost perceptible streaks. The lines of the broad plain face were beginning to sag a bit and more powder and paint were in artful use. The full figure was settling toward a sugestion of heaviness. But the same inviting animal warmth, perhaps no longer quite effortless, seemed to emanate from her. She sat at a table fingering a half-empty glass, smiling in routine response at a thin dark-mustached man with checkered shirt and red bow tie across from her. There were other women in the room, some younger, some more attractive, but Monte Walsh saw only one.
He became aware of the drink in his hand and gulped it down and set the small glass on the bar. He moved across the room, shouldering past people, and he stood near her looking down. "Hattie," he said. "Hattie."
Her head turned, looked up, and her face whitened under its mask of makeup and her eyes widened. "Hello cowboy," she said and swift, involuntary, a deepening flush started from the low-cut line of her dress and swept up her throat and spread glowing over the broad plain face. "Well," she said. "And if it ain't you."
"You're damn right it's me," said Monte, standing tall, feeling taller. He jerked his head toward the man in the checkered shirt. "Let's shake him."
"Now just a minute," said the man, pushing his chair back and bringing into view the butt of a gun stuck under his belt. "I been buying-"
"Please Bert," said Hattie, leaning forward. "Please. Take it easy. He's an old friend of mine I ain't seen in-"
"Too blamed friendly," said the man. "I'm not going to-"
"Quit yapping," said Monte, serene and adequate. "I'm here and I'm a-howling."
The man said nothing. He was reaching for his gun and had it. But Monte was leaping to him and Monte's left hand clamped on the wrist and wrenched and the gun fell clattering :ind Monte's right hand had him by the shirt collar yanking him up to his feet. Monte let go and bored in, fists hammerin--, careless of the answering blows, and the man went down. Monte hauled him up and heaved him past the next table toward the bar and Sugar Wyman of the paid-off trail crew coming forward who promptly caught him and wrapped arms around him.
"Well now, Monte," drawled Sugar, holding fast. "Is this thing bothering you?"
"Not any more," said Monte. "Get rid of him somewheres."
"Come on boys," said Sugar to others of the crew gathering around. "Let's have a little fun an' run this thing outa town."
Monte turned back to Hattie sitting still and quiet watching him and he forgot the dwindling clamor in the big room and the other men crowding in boisterous bunch out the front door and he reached with one hand and moved it gently over the soft yellow sheen. "Come along, Hattie," he said. "We're getting out of here."
Quiet, obedient, she rose and he took her arm. "No goddamned back doors," he murmured and led her to the front and out. "Where's your place?" he said.
Quiet, obedient, she took his arm now and led through the dimness of evening around the building and a short way along a lane and to a small frame shack and she opened the door and moved in ahead of him. He stood in the doorway and again he saw a lamp lit, low, faintly lighting the one room and the curtained alcove for a kitchen. He closed the door and stood with back against it, aware of the pulse beating in one temple, strong and insistent, and he was a little ashamed of its strength and insistence, and he stood still, against the door.
"I ain't in such a hurry this time, Hattie," he said. "I got to have it straight." He stepped over to the one dresser and reached into his pants pockets and emptied their contents on the top of the dresser. A roll of bills and several silver dollars and some change. "Hattie," he said. "There ain't a-going to be anyone else, as long as that lasts."
She stood by the lamp, broad plain face smudged some under its single glory of fading gold, and for the first time ever aloud she used his name. "Monte," she said. "Monte. All right, Monte."
That was the way it was as long as the money lasted. They were together most of the time. They went out to breakfast and lunch and supper together until Hattie said that was too expensive and she bought groceries and prepared meals in the tiny curtained alcove. Monte sat across a spindly little table from her and ate whatever she prepared, not much aware of what it was, and he talked, he could always talk to Hattie, perhaps because she listened so well, smiling softly at his young eagerness, not saying much herself, listening and letting him talk. Once Monte rented a gentle horse and a side saddle for her and he swung up on his big rangy black and they rode out with a picnic lunch into low hills where few people went and they found a small valley with cloaking trees and out there in the great spaces of his big land he forgot and she was willing to forget the lunch for an hour and more on the carpet of grass under the trees with tiny patches of sunlight filtering down and glowing on her hair and that was the one thing he would remember longer than anything else. And once he rented a buggy and smart bay team and took her driving through the growing town oblivious of the amused and sometimes indignant or contemptuous stares of people passed and he was proud of the fine-stepping team and of her beside him content to be there. But once only with such things because Hattie said they were too expensive. It was Hattie who worried about the money, counting the days. They had their time together and he never knew what it cost her, slipping away the first morning while he still slept, in promises to the man who owned the Hempstead House and her shack.
Two weeks and a day and the money was almost gone and with it, unknown to him, that she had emptied out of a knotted old stocking from her battered little trunk in the back of the curtained alcove. And in the afternoon, saying nothing to her, leaving her white-faced and wondering in the shack, Monte strode away and to the livery stable and stood with the proprietor by the corral beside it talking with him about the big rangy black munching hay just inside the rails and after a while Monte strode back to the shack carrying his saddle and bridle and blanket roll and laid these in a corner and stepped to the bed and dropped another small batch of bills on the cover. He stood there, tight-lipped, looking at her still and quiet on the chair where he had left her, and what he saw in the, broad plain face loosened his lips and drew him towa
rd her to stroke the soft fading sheen of her hair. "Hattie," he said. "Hattie. What in hell's got into you?"
So more days passed and Monte, all unknowing, was tightlipped often now and somtimes, hardly aware of what he was doing, while Hattie was busy in the tiny alcove, he paced the small open width of the shack, eleven feet this way and turn, eleven feet that way and turn, and Hattie remembered a mountain lion she had seen once in a wooden cage at Miles City and the same lean vitality and lithe power of movement and she would be proud that this was here with her, wanting to be with her, and a warmth would rise in her that there were times, not often yet times, when she could amost match its strong insistent drive to her, and then she would think, not any clear formulation of thought but more a slow seeping of knowledge, of the cage, of the wooden bars blocking, restricting, confining.
So more days passed and summer was waning and Monte took to spending the afternoons over by the stockyards, occasionally lending a hand with the work there, taking the joshing of other men tight-lipped but always with a ready come-back, and one of these afternoons, late, troubled and unable to stay away, Hattie went looking for him. He sat on the top rear rail of the last big pen and when she approached and spoke softly to him he did not hear. He was staring into distance at the far dust of a trail herd coming and she drew back, watching, and time crawled along and the herd neared and several men came riding on ahead and swerved toward Monte and he leaped down shouting and they all but fell out of saddles to pummel him in vigorous good humor and their voices rose in hearty and obscene epithets.
Hattie turned and walked slowly away, feeling the weight of the years in the slow settling of her once trim figure. She was almost at the shack when footsteps, hurrying, sounded behind her and Monte had her by the arm. "What d'you know," he said, cheerful, incredibly young and alive. "There's a Cross Bar outfit come along. Old Man Hendricks. I've rode with that brand."