Monte Walsh Page 6

  Down the street by the depot a crowd was collecting. The train came in and with it a theatrical troupe billed for an evening performance at the opera house. An eight-piece band emerged from the crowd, resplendent in red jackets and bear­skin caps, led by a baton-twirling bandmaster with very high bearskin hat, followed by two men carrying a banner on poles. Behind them rumbled the two heavy wagons, gay now with bunting decorations, carrying luggage and the frilled and fur-belowed ladies of the troupe. Behind them, brave in colorful costumes, marched the male performers and a good portion of the depot crowd. The procession moved up the street, bass drum booming, horns blatting. People popped out of buildings along the way to watch, some of them stepping out to join the parade.

  Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins swiveled heads slowly as the noise and the splendor passed by. Behind them in the corral the two buffalo heaved to their feet and shifted restlessly, snorting some, pawing the ground. Monte turned his head to look at them.

  "Those things don't appreciate that racket much," he said.

  The procession moved on up the street, more people filling in behind. Monte looked again at the husky young buffalo pawing and throwing dust. He shifted on the rail to turn toward Chet.

  "You mean it?" said Chet.

  "Double damn right I do," said Monte.

  Chet sighed, the glint in his eyes belying the sigh. "All right," he said. "It could be kind of interesting."

  Monte swung legs over the top rail and dropped down inside the corral. "Get the gate," he said, "while I shoo 'em out."

  Monte circled behind the buffalo, shouting and waving his arms. They moved away from him and saw the gate opening and headed for it and out into the street. Monte was close after them, joined by Chet, and together, yipping and waving hats, they turned the two on up the street. They picked up stones and threw these thumping against rumps and the two buffalo, frightened, confused, broke into a trot, overtaking the tag end of the procession.

  Startled squeals and shoutings resounded along Front Street and the parade stragglers scattered, seeking shelter fast, and the two buffalo, frantic now and beginning to feel belligerent about that, broke into a gallop, short tails up stiff, and charged forward, butting and hooking and kicking in stride. The teams of the two wagons plunged and reared, tangling in harness, and the drivers struggled with reins, trying to shout above the female screeches chorusing behind them. The whole parade dissolved into a wild scramble and the two buffalo, detouring around the wagons, plowed on into the rear of the band. Red jackets leaped in various directions, dropping instruments and losing bearskin caps. The bandmaster made the mistake of standing his ground and smacking one of the buffalo on the nose with his baton and immediately thereafter lit out with it hard on his heels.

  Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins stood very still in the street watching in solemn satisfaction. They saw people diving through doorways, shinnying up lampposts, climbing on fences and falling back in their hurry and climbing again. They saw horses breaking loose from tie rails and adding to the general confusion in the enthusiasm of frantic action. They saw the bass drum bounce about, impaled on a horn of one buffalo. They saw the bandmaster crash headlong through a store window, followed by the other buffalo.

  "My oh my," murmured Monte. "I feel some better."

  "Yep," said Chet. "But take a look over there."

  Monte looked. In the wake of the confusion people were gathering in small groups, talking angrily, and several were pointing at him and Chet.

  "Oh, oh," said Monte. "Where's your horse?"

  "Back of the stable there," said Chet.

  "So's mine," said Monte. "Let's move."

  * * *

  Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins, with the dust of Dodge well behind them, drifted southeastward from cow camp to ranch house to cow camp along the grub line and rode into Caldwell one fine sunny morning. In half an hour they had temporary jobs with an outfit that was changing road brands on a herd near the edge of town for delivery on north somewhere and wanted to get off in a hurry. Monte handled a branding iron and he looked up when he could to watch Chet, quiet and steady, swinging a loop on his sturdy short­coupled bay and never missing a cast and throwing stout steers with a simple thoroughness that made hog-tying for the iron relatively easy. When the outfit departed two days later they had a little betting money and they wandered over to the bottoms between Fall and Bluff Creeks where Caldwell horsemen settled their bets and Chet watched Monte swing up on his big rangy black and ride like a bat let loose from hell and lose once and win twice and then they had what could be called spending money.

  * * *

  Dawn, cool and clean, crept through Caldwell. Behind the stockyards in an ell of outer fence Monte Walsh stirred in his blanket and tarp and stretched like a lazy young animal. He flipped the covering aside and sat up and pressed the heels of both hands to his forehead. As usual on the morning after an expansive evening two small trip-hammers beat in his temples. He looked to the left where Chet Rollins lay in his own rigging, serene in sleep. "My oh my," murmured Monte. "Ain't he peaceful. Old hollow-legs himself."

  Monte reached for his boots and pulled them on. He pushed up and walked, somewhat unsteady, following the fence around until he came to an iron-handled pump with a bucket under the spout. He worked the handle vigorously and had a bucketful of water. He lifted this and rinsed his mouth out and drank deep and bent forward and down, raising the bucket higher, and emptied it over his head. He set the bucket down and stretched again, lazy and long, and as usual the beating faded from his temples and he was fully awake and life flowed steady and strong in him. He took a bandanna from a pants pocket and wiped his face, and a broken piece of comb from another pocket and ran this through his hair. He ambled back along the fence and rolled up his bedding. He looked at Chet, still serene in sleep, and a small grin showed on his lips.

  He wandered around, searching, and found a dry hard prickly weed. He broke off several small pieces and came back and stood by Chet's boots. "Puts on the left one first," he murmured and dropped the pieces into the right boot and tilted the boot so that these slid forward into the toe.

  Not far away on the fence hung a heavy old trace chain. He ambled over and lifted this down. He moved toward Chet dragging the chain behind him. As he approached, swerving to come close past Chet's head, he picked up speed and stomped feet down hard and shook the chain into loud jangly rattling. "Whoa!" he shouted. "Whoa, you bastards! Whoa!"

  Chet snapped out of sleep, groggy, confused, and jack­knifed up to sitting position. Frantic in haste he flipped over, scrambling on hands and knees. His feet tangled in blanket and tarp and he went flat, face in the dirt. He rolled over and lay still as silence settled in the ell of outer stockyard fence.

  He raised his head and saw Monte, perched now on the top rail of the fence, doubled down in silent laughter.

  "You're so goddamned childish," said Chet, "you ain't even born yet." Slowly, reaching for dignity, he untangled his feet, stood up, straightened out his bedding and rolled it. He picked up his left boot, looked again at Monte and back to the boot, turned it upside down and shook it. He wiped the bottom of his left foot on his right pants leg and pulled the left boot on, struggling to get the foot into the tight fit. He stood on his left booted foot and picked up the right boot and wiped the bottom of his right foot on his left pants leg and pulled the right boot on, struggling again to get the foot down in.

  The foot went in with a little rush and he jerked back, hopping on his left booted foot, and toppled sideways and down.

  "Having trouble?" said Monte from his perch on the rail.

  Silent, slow, sitting on the ground, Chet tugged at the right boot. He held it up by the sole, shaking it. The pieces of prickly weed, crushed now, fell out. He picked up one small piece and studied it carefully. He flipped it away and struggled to pull the boot on again. He stood up, round stubbly face serene and untroubled, and moved over to confront.` Monte on his perch.

  "Had yourself some fun, didn't
you?" said Chet, amiable, conversational.

  "Now you mention it," said Monte. "Why, yes, I sure did."

  "It's my turn," said Chet. Suddenly his hands gripped Monte's boots at the ankles and he yanked out and flipped up and Monte went over backwards and down to land inside on neck and shoulders with a squashy sound in a small pile of almost-fresh manure, legacy of a batch of steers shipped5out the day before.

  * * *

  Monte Walsh and Chet Rollins sat limp and relaxed on straight-back chairs by a square table near the one big fly­specked front window of the Red Light Saloon. Sunlight through the window, filtering on through dust motes in the air, lay warm and lazy on the tabletop and on the two worn hats and the two small empty glasses there. Behind the long bar the single day bartender humped on a high stool reading a newspaper. At another table farther back a shirtsleeved man wearing a celluloid collar sat fallen forward, head on folded arms on the table, snoring gently. Near the rear where narrow stairs led to the mysterious upper regions two men sat by another table carrying on a low slow conversation about a lease on a store building.

  "Lively, aint it," said Monte. "When I was a kid I thought this town quite a place."

  "Always dull this time of day," said Chet. "Kind of between times too. It'll pick up again soon as a few outfits come in."

  "That ain't now," said Monte. "Wonder what people do who live here permanent. Watch the train come in? A dog­fight once in a time? Exciting as all get-out."

  "They got jobs," said Chet. "One thing about a job it gives you something to do."

  Outside a woman in huge sunbonnet and high choke-neck dress with a bustle under its long voluminous folds behind and with a market basket on her arm passed by the window.

  "Not even worthwhile looking at women," said Monte. "Hide themselves inside tents and all kinds of metal contraptions."

  A door opened somewhere above. Footsteps sounded on the rear stairway, swish-slap of loose slippers flapping. A woman with straggly dyed red hair up in paper curlers, face haggard and grayish without its usual coating of powder and rouge, body sagging and almost shapeless in a soiled old wrapper, came down and moved along the room and behind the bar. She said something to the bartender who grunted some reply without even bothering to look at her. She took a bottle from a shelf by the long mirror and went back to the stairway and up. The sound of slapping old slippers floated through the big room and died away.

  "My oh my," murmured Monte. "That's even worse. And I used to think those things here were really something."

  "They were," said Chet. "Once."

  "Funny, ain't it," said Monte. "After a month or two on the trail working your fool tail off you come into a town and something like that with its warpaint on looks right good. After a few days somehow they don't seem the same."

  "Not so funny," said Chet. "Only natural. You get real hungry, need a meal real bad, even sowbelly tastes good. After a while when you ain't so hungry you start thinking of

  steak."

  Monte reached out a cupped hand, slow, cautious, toward a fly on the table. The hand moved in sudden arc, closing, and he squeezed fingers in along the palm and opened them to let the tiny corpse drop to the floor. "Shucks," he said. "I guess I ain't so hungry. I been thinking . . . "

  He stopped. Outside somewhere a snare drum was sounding a sharp tattoo.

  Monty and Chet looked at each other. They rose, taking hats from the table, and moved to the doorway and out. Down the street, drawn into a vacant lot between two frame buildings, was a large wagon, a van, high-sided and topped, a huge rectangular box on wheels. It was painted in bright reds and yellows, scrolled and curlicued. On each side, arched around a small glassed and curtained window in wonderfully convoluted letters, appeared the legend: DOCTOR GREGORY'S PATENTED PAIN-KILLER. AN ANCIENT INDIAN REMEDY IMPROVED AND STRENGTHENED BY MODERN SCIENCE. The back of the van, one solid chunk of planking hinged at the bottom, had been let down to rest on stout wooden legs and form a platform. Hinged wings had been unfolded to rest on other wooden legs and widen the platform. A full curtain hung down, masking the interior of the van.

  On the right wing an elderly Negro, gray wool of hair topping a seamed black face, lank body encased in old work clothes livened by a short yellow jacket with red fringes, sat on a low stool. A snare drum, suspended from a band around his neck, hung down between his knees. A framework of wire sat on his shoulders and cupped the back of his head and came forward to hold a mouth organ about an inch in front of his mouth. His hands moved with the drumsticks and a superb rhythmic clatter came from the drum.

  Men were emerging from various doorways, moving toward the sound. Monte and Chet ambled down the street, joining in the general movement. A small crowd had already assembled by the platform. They eased in for good views.

  The drummer jutted chin forward and his lips found the mouth organ. The strains of "Dixie" started toes tapping in the dust. Monte jigged a few steps, slapped Chet on the back. "That ain't bad," he said.

  The music stopped. The curtain flapped aside and a man stepped out. Tall, made taller by a gray stovepipe hat. Ends of longish gray hair curled out from under the hat. Heavy eyebrows and a waxed mustache and a pointed beard hid most of the face and what was not hidden had a ruddy overblown look. A red- and yellow-checked vest under a dark brown frock coat worn to smooth sheen in strategic places did its best to cover a plump middle. Gray trousers, stained and sadly wrinkled, led down to frayed endings over old shoes, one of which had a hole cut out to make way for a bunion.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, voice rolling rich and throaty. He looked over his audience. There were no ladies present. He cleared his throat and dismissed the fact with a dignified wave of hand. "Let me simply say: Friends. I am here in your enterprising community in pursuit of my campaign against the ills and the ailments, the aches and the pains, that beset mankind. A worthy cause. A most worthy cause. But I will not tell you now of the miraculous powers of my secret elixir. No, not if you cry out and beg on bended knee. I will not distribute even a single bottle of it at this time. No, not at any price. But this evening-"

  "Quit foggin', Doc," came a voice from the crowd. "Show us what you got behind that curtain."

  Dr. Gregory beamed at the speaker. "You anticipate me, my friend. But I can not blame you. No, not at all. I myself am thrilled at the surprise I have in store for you. Fresh from engagements in the glittering palaces of Kansas City. Fresh from triumphant triumphs in-. But no. I will not keep you in suspense. Miss Francine Floriston, the Nightingale of the Prairies!"

  Dr. Gregory bowed, swept off his stovepipe hat, stepped onto the left wing of the platform. The curtain flapped aside again and the nightingale emerged. Full figure, plenty of it, ample in curves well-proportioned, not needing yet and not having the discipline of a corset. Neat ankles under a short pleated skirt, swelling hips, trim waist, deep bosom, rounded shoulders rising out of low-cut blouse. Baby-doll face, made so by makeup unable to mask the full knowing maturity of the features beneath.

  Miss Francine Floriston stepped forward on the platform; hips swaying slightly, just enough, and stood there, easy, assured, listening to the whistles and shouts of the assembled males.

  "What d'you know," murmured Monte Walsh.

  "Steak," murmured Chet Rollins.

  Miss Francine Floriston assessed her audience, turned her head toward the right wing.

  "Make it 'Sal,' " she said.

  The elderly Negro laid down his drumsticks and took a small whiskbroom from a pocket. Gently he swished this on the drum. His jaw jutted forward and his lips found the mouth organ.

  Miss Francine Floriston began to sway with the music. Her hips moved with it, more and more, more than enough. She put her head back and opened her mouth and began to sing, voice raucous and ringing with vitality.

  "Hare-lipped Sal, she was a beaut,

  She wore a number nine.

  She kicked the hat on a Texas Galoot

  To the tune of Auld Lang Syne."
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  Abruptly she stopped and the music with her. She turned her head slowly, looking over the assorted townsmen. Her glance stopped on the lean length of Monte Walsh and the square-built solidity of Chet Rollins. Stopped. And lingered. "Howdy, boys," she said and turned and lifted the curtain and disappeared behind it.

  Dr. Gregory held the platform. His throaty voice commanded the scene. "A sample, friends. Only a sample. There will be a full performance this evening. Recitations from the finest dramas of the ages. Songs in her inimitable manner by the incomparable Miss Francine. Free booklets of medical wisdom. Yes, free. Absolutely free. Come one, come all. Bring your friends and your families. This evening. At eight of-the clock." With a bow and a sweep of stovepipe hat Dr. Gregory too disappeared behind the curtain.

  The crowd, buzzing satisfactorily, began to disperse. A man in overalls and dirty flannel shirt jumped up on the plat­form. "Cock fightl" he shouted. "At Murray's stable! Jim Magee's Calico Killer defending! In half an hourl Fifty cents!" He jumped down and strode away.

  The crowd, except for a few hopefuls still watching the curtain, faded away. Monte and Chet, tagging others, ambled on down the street toward Murray's livery stable. "What d'you know," murmured Monte. "Out of nowhere just like that."

  They ambled on. "We could flip a coin," said Chet.

  "Oh, no you don't," said Monte. "I could lose that way. This is going to be wide open."

  They ambled on. "Yep," said Monte. "One good look at that homely face of yours and you'll be out of it."

  "Don't be so all-fired sure," said Chet. "I expect she ain't interested only in faces."

  T

  " Tell you what," said Monte, bouncing a bit off his toes. Just for the hell of it, I'll bet you five dollars I beat your time tonight."

  * * *

  Monte Walsh emerged through the open doorway of a small barbershop into the dimness of evening along the main street of Caldwell. He rubbed a hand down one smooth-shaven cheek and sniffed himself in slow satisfaction. Across the way by the vacant lot between two frame buildings a surprising number of people were crowded together, faces turned toward and lit by the light from lanterns strung on a rope between the two buildings and others on the outer edge of the platform of Dr. Gregory's van. Two small boys squirmed through the crowd distributing pamphlets filled with medical advice on all manner of ailments which invariably ended in rccommendations for liberal doses of the patented pain­killer. Dr. Gregory himself, on the platform with a once­purple cloak swirling about him and a tin something vaguely resembling a helmet replacing the stovepipe hat on his head; was temporarily the ruler of some far exotic land exhorting unseen warriors in rich sonorous phrases to show themselves like men and fight like bears at bay.