by Les Weil
"Stinks worse'n goats," muttered Monte, sniffing. He nudged the dun with tarnished spurs.
The man and the horse jogged on up the road. The air was becoming chill now. Clouds hugged the tips of the heights ahead. Monte buttoned his jacket and pulled up the collar. They jogged on. The road dipped through cut banks to cross another arroyo. Damp spots were plentiful here and a trickle of water ran and out in the middle of the arroyo sat the once-shiny new automobile, hub-deep in wet sand, motor dead, wisps of steam rising from the brass-bound radiator.
The superintendent, goggles gone, a shovel in his hands, dug vigorously by the front wheels.
"Well, well," said Monte, pulling rein. "So you'll be up there way ahead of me."
"Shut up," said the superintendent, traces of cheerfulness still in him. "You will notice I brought a shovel. I'm learning. Tried to creep through slow. Should have come with a rush." He moved around by the rear wheels.
Monte, serene in saddle, watched. "Hell," he said. "I ought to leave you here." He took out one of the small oblongs wrapped in tinfoil, unwrapped a corner, bit off a chunk. He chewed in solemn satisfaction, watching.
The superintendent put the shovel in the back seat of the car, adjusted his levers, picked up the crank and went to work with it. The motor exploded into life again. He dashed around, jiggled his levers, climbed in. The motor roared again with splatting of cylinder reports and the car inched forward and sank back as the rear wheels churned deeper than before.
The motor idled, out of gear. The superintendent had hold of the steering wheel with both hands and bent his head down over them.
"My oh my," said Monte. "You won't get nowheres that way. Back as far as you can, then stuff some branches under."
The superintendent raised his head and looked at Monte. "Out of the mouths of something or other," he said. The motor roared and the car inched backward about two feet and stopped, rear wheels churning down. He shut off the motor, climbed out, began breaking branches off the few willows along one bank and stuffing them under in front of the rear wheels. He cranked again, grunting, no trace of cheerfulness left in him, and was back behind the steering wheel. The motor roared and the car lurched forward a few feet, slid back, lurched forward, slid back.
"Keep that up," said Monte, "and you'll need reshoeing mighty fast."
The superintendent shut off the motor, climbed out, walked around the car, bent low to inspect the rear wheels, kicked at one of them. He looked at Monte. "You start laughing," he said, "and I'll start chunking stones at you. You got any more bright ideas?"
"No," said Monte. A wry grin showed on his lips. "But I got a decrepit old horse." He nudged the dun forward and around in front of the car. He shook out his rope and tossed the loop end onto the hood of the car. "Tie that to something that won't pull off," he said, "and get that silly contraption to percolating again."
The motor roared, straining in low gear, and the rope taut from the front axle to Monte's saddle horn tightened under the tension as the aging dun, muscles bunching, heaved forward, hoofs digging deep, and the car moved ahead, slowly, slowly, then faster, crunching through sand, and was out on the firm ground where the road led on through the cut in the bank.
"What da'you know," said Monte. "It come out of there just like a bogged cow."
"That makes us even," said the superintendent, untying the rope and regaining some cheerfulness in the process. "I talked down your horse and now you've called my machine a stupid cow. You need help on anything at the ranch, just let me know and I'll send a man over. Anytime." He was back behind the steering wheel, feeling fine again. "Hell of a road," he said, putting on his goggles. "When it's fixed the way it should be, will be, I'll bet I average twenty miles an hour coming up." With a wave of one hand he drove cheerily on.
"Fix the road," murmured Monte, coiling in his rope. "It's a goddamned highway already. That's another angle on the fool things. Got to fix roads for 'em or they ain't worth a hoot. Supposing you want to go where there ain't no fixed up roads?" He patted the dun on the neck and it waggled an ear back at him and he nudged it with his spurs.
The man and the horse jogged on. The sound of the car faded on forward into distance. The road topped out on a high level that stretched for miles toward the swift uprise of the first ridges jutting out like gigantic knees from the mountains. Far ahead Monte could see the car following a wide sweep of the road toward the broad cleft that led between two ridges into the valley.
There was a new sound now, that of running water. They left the road, turning to the right, and jogged several hundred yards and stepped on the brink of a steep-walled gorge. Two hundred feet below the river roiled over rocks, racing toward the lower levels.
"Doing right well," murmured Monte. "The runoff's really starting."
They jogged back to the road and followed it again, roughly paralleling the deep slice of the gorge angling across the high plain. The shadow of the mountains grew longer, stretching out over the level, and they jogged into this and the chill in the air increased and the winds of late afternoon began to move down from the cold heights and Monte fastened the collar of his jacket and shook briefly in the saddle, caught in a fit of coughing. The dun stopped, aware, patient, waiting, and when he was through moved forward again.
Snow lingered in the hollows of the plain now, soft, dribbling away at the edges, and the road was damp with the wheel tracks of the car showing distinct. The ground roughened, rocky, more broken, and the snow was deeper in the hollows. Ahead was the broad cleft between the two ridges and the sound of rushing water became steadily louder. Here the river, running between relatively low banks, swept down and around the blunted end of the ridge to the left, across the broad opening into the valley, past the cliff-front of the ridge on the right, and raced on in great curve to work down ever deeper into its gorge. The road led straight to it and crossed on a low wooden bridge, log-piled, plank-surfaced.
They jogged to the bridge and stopped. Monte tilted his head back a bit to look out over the wide stretch of high upland valley, miles of it receding far back into the mountains, steep-sided, ending at last in sudden upsweep of forest. Snow, spreading out from the blanketed slopes, still held most of the floor, varying in depth, but patches of new green showed in the last shadowed light of the afternoon. The brush-lined stream, shallow, that swung in slow curves down through the middle, was no longer frozen, ran clear and cold to join the river to the right below the bridge. Off from it, close under the right-hand ridge, he could see the log buildings of the ranch, deserted, smokeless, dead, waiting for him to quicken them with life again. Off to the left, across and further up the valley, partway up the left-hand ridge, was the cluster of odd-shaped buildings that marked the mine, the squat hoist building with covered runway leading to the main shaft, tool and dynamite sheds, ore dumps. Smoke floated upward from the stovepipe in the roof of the hoist building and several figures, tiny across the distance, moved about alongside. Clearly discernible, like a gashed pencil mark, even under the snow, the railroad embankment led down-valley from the ore dumps along the side of the ridge to a high stilttimbered trestle over the river about four hundred yards upstream from the wooden bridge and picked up again on the other side to disappear into the broken country downslope.
Directly across the bridge, to the left of the road leading on, was another cluster of buildings, one of them large, combination store and year-round home, many-chimneyed from big fireplaces, smoke drifting from several of them, with a big barn behind, the others small, snugly-fitted cabins for the miners' families who would be there through the summer.
He nudged the dun forward and its hoofbeats sounded hollow on the bridge and they stopped in front of the large building. A long-legged black dog dashed out from somewhere and circled the dun, barking in mock menace, wagging tail apologizing for the duty of announcement. A lank longfaced man in heavy pants and flannel shirt appeared in the doorway and stepped out, followed by a faded gray-haired woman with a wool shaw
l around her shoulders.
"Monte Walsh!" said the lank man. "We been talking for two days that you'd be showing soon! Why, it's been since Christmas when you made it up here with our mail."
"I got another batch," said Monte, turning in saddle to untie a package fastened to his bedroll behind the cantle. "And I got a little something special in it for Sairy there."
"I knew you wouldn't forget," said the woman. "What I was talking about last time. A bracelet."
"Shucks," said Monte. "How'd you ever guess? It's turquoise. Real Indian stuff."
"Hogan said you'd be coming along," said the lank man. "We been waiting supper. You see them clouds building up above Old Baldy? Might be nasty after a while. You ain't going another step. Put your hoss in the barn and give him a good bait of feed. You're staying the night right here."
* * *
Night over the high upland valley and far on up where the crest of Old Baldy reared like a ragged knife edge snow swirled in the wind gusts and on down the steep slopes and spreading through the whole range this was mixed with sleet and rain falling on the snowpack, working down, running in tiny rivulets under the great soggy blanket of dirtied graywhite.
Monte Walsh stirred on the narrow cot in the little side room directly off the big storeroom. He lay still, listening. In the background, over all, permeating the air everywhere, the rumble of the river two hundred feet away outside the building. Overhead, on the roof, the light patter of rain. Beyond the closed door, the soft slapping tread of footsteps passing.
He sat up, throwing off the old quilt, swinging feet to the floor. He reached and pulled on his socks and reached again, rising, and pulled on his pants. He stepped to the door and opened it.
Across the dimness of the big cluttered room the front door was open. A shapeless figure in old slippers and nightshirt with a blanket wrapped around stood in the doorway, looking out.
Monte moved across the room.
"Listen to it," said the lank man. "I been living here so long I can tell just by the sound. It's rising. Rising fast."
* * *
Morning and the clouds had parted and the sun shone in snatches through. Mists drifted along the ridges and clouds clung masking the mountains, but there was a cheerful brightness in the valley. Monte Walsh and the lank man sat on two old chairs on the roofless platform that served as a porch. The black dog lay at the lank man's feet. Two hundred feet away the river raced, flood-strong, turbulent, not quite a foot under the planking of the bridge.
The black dog raised its head, identified an approaching arrival, dropped its head. Around the corner of the building, striding brisk, efficient, came the mine superintendent in riding breeches, lumber jacket, peaked cap, and mud-splashed puttees over heavy shoes.
"Morning," he said, full of cheer. "Morning." To Monte: "I see you got here. That horse of yours isn't so decrepit after all. I should know, shouldn't l?" To the lank man: "My crew's grumbling about cooking for themselves this weather. Think you could feed them for a
few days? Fifty cents per man per meal."
"Sixty," said the lank man.
"Robber," said the superintendent cheerfully. "Skinflint. Miser. Greedy folk don't get to heaven. But it's a deal."
"Wait a minute," said the lank man. He turned his head. "Sairy!"
The gray-haired woman appeared in the doorway.
"Hogan here wants us to feed his men rest of the week. We'll soak him plenty. Get me that new fishing pole I want. Get you that new dress. You want to take it on?"
"And a hat," said the woman, turning back into the building.
"Well, maybe," said the lank man. "You got two hats."
"You got three," came the woman's voice, fading away. "If you can call those things hats."
"Settled," said the superintendent. "A big business deal put through just like that. If they were all that simple this would be a wonderful world." He took a cigar from a pocket, bit off the end, lit it, looking toward the river. "Say," he said. "I never saw the water that high before."
"It's been higher," said the lank man.
"Looks like it might make a meal of that bridge," said Monte. "Without paying sixty cents."
"Don't you worry yourself any about that bridge," said the superintendent. "It's sound. I ought to know. I put it in. Well, I'll have the men down here about one for the first of those meals. Have to work them hard in between to make up for that fancy price." He strode away, back around the corner of the building.
Monte Walsh and the lank man sat on the two chairs, looking at the river.
"Think it's still rising?" said Monte.
"Four inches since before breakfast," said the lank man. "If it keeps going depends whether there's been a freeze back up there to slow it down."
The gray-haired woman appeared in the doorway again and came out, carrying a big bowl of raw potatoes and a paring knife.
"You peel," she said to the lank man. "And help with the dishes. Or no new fishing pole."
The lank man sighed. "Henpecked," he said. "First I'm a miser. Now I'm a mouse." He took the bowl and set it down between his feet. He took the paring knife and picked up a potato.
"Shucks," said Monte. "I got a list of things I'll be needing from your store. But that can wait." He pulled out his pocketknife, opened a blade, reached for a potato.
* * *
The clouds had closed, a solid dark grayness overhead. Stringy mists drifted through the valley, hugging the ground. Rain fell in a steady drizzle, eating into the snowbanks, spreading in a sheet of multiplying streams over the ground. The river raced in heaving flood, lapping at the plank surfacing of the bridge, sending spray over it. The debris of winter, carried by the current, piled against the side stringers.
Monte Walsh and the lank man sat on the two chairs inside the big storeroom by the one front window.
"I ain't told you," said the lank man. "I was over to your place last week. That tree by the house's down. Hit a corner. Knocked a hole in the roof. It'll be dripping water inside. You'd be a fool to think of going over weather like this."
"Miser," said Monte. "Skinflint. You ain't going to heaven. You're thinking of some more sixty centses."
The lank man looked steadily at him. "Want me to bat your ears off?" he said. '
Outside, two hundred feet away, little creakings, lost in the tumult of the water, ran along the bridge and twenty feet below the current sucked at the footing of the piles and with a cracking and wrenching of timbers the middle section gave way and ripped loose and raced in pieces downstream. Relentless in rising onrush, the river tore at the jagged sides remaining.
Monte Walsh and the lank man leaned forward, looking out the window.
"Don't you worry none about that bridge," said Monte. "It's sound. I put it in myself."
"No sense being too hard on him," said the man. "It's gone out before. Once back in '97 before I came here, but I heard about it. Again six years back before you first was up here. Some day they'll boost it high enough, like that railroad thing on up. Nothing bothers it."
"What d'you know," said Monte. "Looks like we're plugged in here for a while."
"So what?" said the lank man. "None of us're going anywheres."
* * *
The rain had slackened some, only a fine scattered spray soaking the air, but there was no sign of a break in the grayness overhead.
Monte Walsh and the lank man sat on the two old chairs by the front window of the big room, facing each other. A checkerboard lay on a small keg between them. In the room directly behind the gray-haired woman moved about, passing and repassing the open inner doorway, setting eleven places at a long table.
"Jump me," said the lank man.
"G'wan," said Monte. "I do that and you take two."
"You got to. It's a rule."
"Maybe," said Monte. "But somehow your rules always go your way. I bet you spend all winter practicing this fool game."
"I can beat him," came the woman's voice through the open inner d
oorway. "Two out of three games, every time."
Faint, far, up the valley, a low rumble sounded, rising in pitch and sustaining this then fading, dwindling into silence. Small tremors shook the building. Dishes on shelves in the back room rattled slightly.
"Up at the mine," said the lank man. "What in hell d'you think they're doing? Using dynamite? They can't be ready for blasting yet."
"That fool Hogan," said Monte. "He's apt to be doing anything."
* * *
The rain had increased again, a steady downpour flooding the hollows, beating into the snowbanks. From far upstream, ripped loose by the current along the sides, blobs of dirty white slush and ice bobbed on the surface of the river. Water sluiced off the slant roof of the store-building, making its own small gulley downslope to the river.
Monte Walsh and the lank man and the gray-haired woman sat at one end of the long table in the back room finishing a hearty meal.
"Going to be a dry summer," said Monte. "Always works that way. A wet spring, a dry summer."
"Yeah," said the lank man. "Like there's just so much can come down. We're getting it all at once." He produced a plump silver watch from somewhere about his clothes, consulted it. "Where're those men of Hogan's? Trying to do us out of our sixty centses. It's one forty-five already."
"Hat or no hat," said the woman. "If they can't be somewheres near on time, I'm not cooking."
"Shucks," said Monte to the lank man. "One thing. You won't have so many dishes to do. Now me, I don't have to worry about that. Nothing like being a guest. Non-paying too." He rose, looking at the woman. "I sure enjoyed my food, Sairy. Specially the potatoes. They was peeled so proper." He strolled into the front room.
"Oh, you'll pay," the lank man's voice followed him. "I got half a dozen little jobs figured out for you already."
"Why sure," said Monte, sinking into his chair by the checkerboard. "You just tell me and I'll get after them. That is, after you help me fix that roof over at the place." He leaned back in the chair, listening to the small clatter of dishes and pans from the kitchen opening off the back room, looking out the window at the river. "My oh my," he murmured. "Regular Noah's flood. Winter's sure on the way out. It'll be wildflower time soon."