Monte Walsh

by Les Weil

  Quietly, steadily, Monte untied the rope and coiled it in close to the loop around the stiff legs and laid the coil on the old dun's body. He went to the shed again and took a shovel and laid this on the stoneboat, wedging it under one stiffened leg. He led the draft horse around again and hooked the traces to the eyebolts.

  In the first full sweep of color from the rising sun over the big land Monte Walsh and a nondescript willing draft horse and the body of the old dun moved downslope toward a clump of cottonwoods three hundred yards away. The hole there, onetime sod roof caved in and onetime supporting poles pulled out long since for firewood, still showed well-de­fined sides a few feet down and was perhaps five feet deep in the middle. The stoneboat stopped along one side. Once again the traces were unhooked and the coiled rope paid out, across the hole to the other side, and tied again to the traces. The draft horse heaved again into the harness and the body of the dun tilted up and over and down into the hole. Monte climbed down in to unloop the rope and toss it out. He climbed out and took the shovel and began to cover the body with dirt from the sides. He worked his way around, beveling down the sides, and had the body well covered. He stood looking at the now rounded hollow with its leveled center and shook his head and dropped the shovel and hooked the traces to the eyebolts again and drove the draft horse down to the creek several hundred yards farther away and hunted along this for good-sized stones. Two loads hauled to the hollow and the leveled center was covered.

  Back at the buildings, he left the stoneboat where it had been, the harness and shovel in the shed, and closed the gate on the draft horse and went into the house. The coffee in the pot had almost boiled away though the fire was dying out, What was left was thick and strong. He managed to pour it in the cup without too many grounds and stood in the doorway sipping the hot liquid and watching the two men, mounted now on two lean cow ponies, coming back driving seven horses ahead of them. He watched the seven horses approaching, four dark bays and two sorrels and a roan, young; and full of the eager alertness of youth, stepping easy and brisk and still unaware of saddles and what they meant. He shook his head slightly. Good animals. They would shape up well for the bridle path and one or two perhaps even for the showring. But not one of these. He finished the coffee and reached back to set the cup down and moved toward the corral to open the gate and begin the day's work ...

  Three weeks here and on to the next place, riding a borrowed horse, and on to other places, riding borrowed horses between, and looking, always looking. And one day he stood by the main corral of a big outfit talking to the owner-manager, a tall thin Englishman in riding breeches and polished eastern boots. A dozen sleek horses, most of them big half­breds, were in the corral.

  "There they are," said the Englishman. "They are not finished. Not by a long sight. Some not even started. Our regular man is in the hospital. We will pay you the same wages as long as you are here. That is, if you-" He stopped. Monte was not listening. He was looking at another horse in a small pen beside the corral.

  Dun in color with a slight extra darkening along the back and showing in the short mane and full tail. Young with the pent energy of youth leaping in the stout muscles under the dun-colored hide as it shifted restlessly in the narrow pen. Broad between the eyes that shone with resentment and indignation at the close cramping quarters. Deep-chested with clean legs tapering down to rock-hard range hoofs. Deceptive in seeming smallness compared to the others in the corral because of the compact solidity of the whole tight-knit body.

  "What d'you know," murmured Monte. He jerked his head toward the pen. "What about that one?"

  "That one," said the Englishman, dry, clipped. "That one sent our man to the hospital. I have not decided what to do with it except not to waste another man on it. Not much breeding anyway. If you are worried-" He stopped again. Monte was not listening. He was looking at the young horse in the pen and his shoulders were rising a little as he stood taller in his old boots.

  "Look here," said the Englishman. "I assure you that riding that beast is not included in the pay."

  "Pay?" said Monte, turning to him. "Forget that. I'll top off the whole bunch for you if you'll just give me that one."

  The Englishman stared at him, startled. "It will be your funeral," he said. "I would not think of asking any man-"

  "Shucks," said Monte, grinning. "It's a horse, ain't it."

  * * *

  They came along a rutted road that led out of seeming nowhere and on into the same, Monte Walsh and a young deep­chested leggy dun at the easy fast jog he had taught it along with many and many other things. Clouds rolled along the horizon and wind whipped past them, a man and a horse, complete in themselves, all that they owned or needed to own on them and in the blanket roll behind the saddle with the recent addition of a new slicker rolled and tied to it.

  They jogged along and the wind skittered a tumbleweed past directly in front and the dun, deliberately, for the simple fun of it, shied in mock terror and leaped sideways. "Quit that," said Monte, serene in saddle, not particularly meaning it. "Act your age." He patted the dun's neck. "Maybe that's just what you're doing," he said.

  They jogged on. The clouds climbed, arching closer, and rain came with the wind, the first spattering of big drops. Monte flipped the rein-ends together in a loose knot and dropped them over the saddle horn. He reached back, fumbling to untie the slicker. "Knew I'd be needing this," he murmured, intent on the operation. He had the slicker around and unrolled, flapping in the wind. He fought with it and had his left arm through the left sleeve. The dun, jogging steadily along, turned its head and rolled an eye, watching him. He had the slicker across his back and struggled to get his right arm into the right sleeve. It slipped partway in and the dun exploded upward, rising in a high buck, spine arched. Monte rocked in the saddle, arms caught up and behind him in the slicker, and the dun lit, hard, and rose again, twisting, and Monte sailed off and landed with a thump ten feet away.

  He sat up, legs stretched out, leaning back on arms still caught in the slicker. The dun had stopped and stood, head turned, ears forward, watching him. In the pelting rain, indifferent to it, the man and the horse looked at each other. Monte worked his right arm on through the right sleeve. He stood up, pulling the slicker around him, and walked over and faced the horse headon. "So you had to do it at least just once," he said. "You been waiting. Watching your chance." He reached up and rubbed around the ears wet now from the rain. "Well, now," he said. "You've done it. You've done it good. You try it again and I'll rip your hide off and stake it out to dry. Personal." He hitched the slicker higher around his neck. "Of course," he said, "I don't mean warming up of a morning." He swung into the saddle and pulled the slicker from under his rump so it lay back over the saddle roll and buttoned the three top buttons over his chest and tucked the lower flaps over his knees. They jogged on.

  The rain passed, as swift as it had come, leaving a freshness over the land and small puddles in the road ruts. Monte dropped the reins again over the saddle horn and took off the slicker flapping in what was left of the wind and rolled it and twisted around in the saddle, hooking one leg to hold, and tied it in place and there was no explosion during this operation, only a contented jogging.

  The sun came out and went to work on the dampness in Monte's clothes and on the soaked old felt of his hat and wisps of vapor rose from the warm hide of the dun as the stout young muscles moved beneath it and the road topped a rise and dipped down to cross a stream and a railroad track and was suddenly the brief main street of a small railside settlement.

  They stopped by the tie rail in front of a shaky peaked­roof store. Monte dismounted and looped reins and stepped up on the sagging porch and went in through the open doorway. He emerged and sat on one of the two warped chairs on the porch, a can of peaches in one hand, top removed, a tin spoon in the other. He reached with the hand holding the spoon to push his hat up his forehead, dipped the spoon into the can, began to enjoy the peaches.

  The storek
eeper shuffled out, a wispy ineffectual-looking man with a drooping sandy mustache, and sat on the other chair.

  "The Box D," said Monte around a mouthful of peaches. "Where's it at?"

  "Up the road about twenty mile," said the storekeeper. "You come to three big pines on the right and you turn there. You'll see the wheel tracks. About five mile back in by the mountain." He wiped a hand over his mustache, brushing away a few crumbs. "So they say. I ain't ever been in there."

  Monte finished the peaches, tilted the can for the last of the juice. He flipped the empty can toward a pile of rubbish beside the porch, wiped the spoon on a shirt sleeve and held it out to the storekeeper. "Good as new," he said. "Use it on the next one." He took out the makings, saw they were dry enough, and rolled a cigarette.

  Across the roadway, widened here, was a neat square building whose front window proclaimed in gold letters:

  Lawyer

  Abogado

  Attorney at Law

  This was rather a remarkable building in that it defied the general character of the settlement by being freshly painted. White. The front door, paneled, was a solid bright red. Out in the roadway two small boys, barefoot, in too-large cut-down jeans and ragged shirts, launched a chip of wood with a twig mast and a leaf sail on one of the shrinking puddles. The tiny boat toppled over and the two small boys shouted at each other, tossing the blame back and forth. One of them picked up a handful of mud and threw it at the other, who promptly replied in kind. Mud flew fast. The first boy fled, running toward, the remarkable building to duck around the side and the other boy unleashed a final barrage after him and a fat fistful of mud smacked against the bright red door. Suddenly speechless, stricken, the second boy dashed away.

  The red door opened inward and a man stepped out, plump, red-faced, bushy-eyebrowed, wearing striped trousers held up by fancy braided suspenders and a pink shirt and a spotless celluloid collar with a flowing black tie. He regarded the outside of the door in indignant disgust. He disappeared inside and emerged with a damp cloth and rubbed vigorously. He regarded the door again. The bright red was smudged and less bright where he had rubbed. He disappeared inside again and emerged again with a small can of paint and a brush. With quick angry strokes he repainted the outside of the door.

  "My oh my," murmured Monte. "He sure is proud of that hunk of wood."

  The storekeeper grunted. "Paints it every month," he said. "Regular. Last time was just last week." He rubbed a hand over his mustache. "Proud of a lot of things," he said.

  Monte rolled another cigarette, struck a match, sent two streamers of smoke upward from his nose.

  The two small boys were back again, friends again, retrieving their boat, making adjustments of its rigging. The red door opened and the plump man dashed out, surprisingly fast on his feet, aiming straight for them. He grabbed one boy by the arm while the other streaked away. He held the squirming boy and cuffed him smartly on the side of the head. He let go and kicked out with excellent aim as the boy fled. He turned back, triumphant, and the red door closed behind him.

  Monte flipped his cigarette stub away and stirred on his chair.

  "Nice day," said the storekeeper. "After the rain and all." He rubbed a hand over his mustache. "I'd keep it that way. He'd have a lawsuit slapped on you before you hit him more'n once."

  "You don't say," murmured Monte. He took out his pocketknife and began cleaning dirt from under his blunt battered fingernails.

  A train tootled and came puffing along, disdaining to stop, merely slowing in mild recognition of the settlement. A big burly man in patched cinder-stained clothes and limp straw hat with the marks of long knockabout travel on them and him sat on the floor of a baggage car in its open doorway, legs dangling out. As the train slowed, he pushed out and landed in the roadway and rolled over and came to his feet with the agility of considerable practice at this kind of maneuver. While the train moved on, tootling again and picking up speed, he reclaimed his hat and wandered over by the store front. He looked at the storekeeper, then at Monte, then at somewhere in between them. "Maybe," he said, "maybe you'd know of a job." He thought that over. "A temporary job," he said.

  "Job?" said the storekeeper. "Last job here was three years ago and there was seven men wanted it."

  The man reached inside his patched shirt, scratching. He looked in the direction of the departing train. "I should of stayed with it," he said. "When's the next one?"

  "Four hours," said the storekeeper. "Going the other Way."

  The man sighed and turned around and sat down on the edge of the porch.

  A few flies buzzed and the sun went on with its own indifferent work, drying the puddles, and the young dun stomped a hoof occasionally out by the tie rail and slowly Monte Walsh straightened on his chair. He snapped the knife shut and rose from his chair and stretched and he stepped past the storekeeper and went into the store and he bounced off his toes as he went. He came back out and in one hand he held a new paint brush and a small can of paint whose label asserted in brave letters: Canary Yellow. "How much?" he said.

  The storekeeper stared at him, then at the things in his hand. "Thirty-nine," he said, "and fifteen. Call it fifty cents."

  Monte fished with his other hand in a pants pocket and pulled out a fifty-cent piece and handed this to the storekeeper. He sat again on his chair and shook the small can vigorously and took out his knife and pried up the top of the can. He set the can and the brush and the can top carefully down on the porch floor beside his chair, put the knife in his pocket and took out the remaining coins that had been in there with it. Three silver dollars, a quarter, a dime, two pennies. He put the smaller coins back in his pocket and held the three silver dollars in his hand. He reached with a boot toe to nudge the burly man sitting on the edge of the porch. "How'd you like to make three dollars?" he said.

  "Quit it," said the man without turning around. "There ain't that much money in this whole place." He heard the chink of the coins in Monte's hands and turned to look.

  "That building over there you been staring at," said Monte, jingling the coins.

  "Yeah," said the man, staring at the coins. "What about it?"

  "Well, now," said Monte. "It happens to be mine. Belongs to me. I been thinking-"

  "Hey," said the storekeeper. "Where'd you get the notion you-" He stopped. Monte was looking at him.

  "Yeah," said Monte to the burly man. "It's mine. I been thinking it don't look right. That door. Too damn red. Sticks out like a sore thumb. Hurts the eyes. Ought to tone it down some. You just take this can here and paint it for me. I'd do it myself but I'm feeling plumb lazy."

  "You mean," said the burly man, "all I got to do is paint that door and you pay me three dollars?"

  "Why sure," said Monte. "Only there's one thing. Man in there who rents the place is mighty peculiar. Off in the head. Ought to be locked up but we feel kind of sorry for him and let him roam loose. He might get to bothering you, claiming the place is his. Just don't pay him no mind."

  The burly man was scratching again. "Three dollars," he said.

  "Why sure," said Monte. "Those three. To show you my heart's in the right spot I'll give them to you right now."

  The burly man held the coins. He bit each in turn and tucked them away somewhere in his patched clothes. He leaned on his stomach along the porch floor and took the can of paint and the brush. He rose to his feet and headed across the roadway.

  "I ain't heard a word of this," said the storekeeper, rising and heading in through the store doorway. "I been inside all the time." He perched on a stool behind the counter where he could see out the front window.

  Monte Walsh pushed his hat further up his forehead and leaned back comfortably on his chair.

  Across the way the burly man set the can of paint down by the right side of the red door, dipped the brush in, went to work. His strokes were large and expansive and the brilliant yellow paint smeared with the fresh red paint to produce a superb conglomerate of color.

&nb
sp; The door opened and the plump man appeared. He stared in shocked disbelief at the yellow streakings. He reached a finger and touched one and stared at the fingertip. He focused on the burly man, brush in hand, and his voice climbed in shrill indignation. The burly man turned his head and winked at Monte on the store porch and turned his head back and put his left hand on the plump man's chest and shoved him staggering inside the building. The burly man closed the door and went on with his work.

  The door opened again and the plump man stepped out, voice shrilling, and shoved the burly man backward. The burly man laid down his brush, grabbed the plump man in both arms and heaved him ten feet away to stagger and sit down in drying mud. The burly man picked up the brush, closed the door again, and went on with his work.

  The plump man pushed to his feet, shaking with fury. He lowered his head and ran straight into the burly man with fists flailing. The burly man, somewhat heated now himself, took hold of the flowing black tie and the front of the pink shirt with his left hand and held the plump man at arm's length. Deliberately he wiped the wet brush in his right hand across the plump man's face. He dropped the brush and bent, still holding, to pick up the can of paint and lifted this high and emptied it over the plump man's head.

  Across the way Monte Walsh rose to his feet. "I reckon I better be moving on," he said. He stepped down from the porch and unlooped reins and in one swift motion was in the saddle. He struck spurs to the dun and it reared, pivoting, and leveled out into the road. "Yoweee!" yelled Monte in one of its ears and it stretched out, racing away.

  * * *

  they had brought a small herd down out of the hills, six days of hard riding, and checked it in at the railside pens, Monte Walsh and the gaunt old hook-nosed oldtime ranchman who had taken Monte on for the season and quickly got over his worry that he could afford to hire only one hand this year. They had shaved at the water trough by the pens and stripped to the raw behind a screen of bushes and scrubbed themselves in the creek that ran past the sleepy little town and beaten much of the dust out of their clothes with branches and they made a fairly respectable pair, in a rugged way, when they sampled the liquid refreshment at the first of the town's two saloons.