"Hey, Dobe," he said. "See that bottle over there. Bet you can't hit it."
Dobe sat up, stared at the bottle, then at Monte. "Ees loco," he said. "For that you break the siesta?"
"Shucks," said Monte. "I mean shooting through your legs."
"The legs?" said Dobe, interested. "How ees that?"
"Like this," said Monte, spraddling legs, bending down double to peer back between them.
"Eees still loco," said Dobe, but grinning, pushing up. He took a stand, back to the bottle, legs apart. In one graceful motion his right hand swept gun from holster and his body bent double, hand pushing between legs. Gun roared and bottle shattered.
"What the hell?" said Hat Henderson, starting up.
"I'll be blowed," said Monte. "You must of practiced that."
"No," said Dobe, grinning wide, slipping gun back in holster, patting it. "Thees gun and me, we know each of the other."
"Hey," said Sunfish Perkins, climbing to his feet. "Looks like we're having company."
Across the way figures had suddenly materialized, three in front of SALOON, four in front of ROOMS & EATS. One of the latter was striding purposefully forward, a solid square-faced man, hatless, in spurred boots and matching pants and vest and checkered shirt. He was heading straight for the scraggly cottonwood. He hitched suggestively at his gunbelt as he strode. He called out, purposefully loud: "You there! Don't you try getting away." He came close and stopped, solid on boots, hands on hips. "All right! Who fired that shot?"
"Who ruffled your feathers?" said Hat Henderson, mild, deceptively mild.
"There's a law here," said the man, still loud, purposefully loud, "against using firearms within the limits. Tell me now, Who did it?"
"It might be I did," said Hat.
"Why you double-distilled liar," said Monte Walsh. "I did."
"There you go," said Chet Rollins, moving in. "Both of you. Trying to hog the glory. It's mine."
"The hell it is," said Sunfish Perkins. "That was me."
A slow smile spread over the square-faced man's features. "I'm smart," he said, friendly, low-voiced, confidential. "I've rode a bit too. I know just from hearing you boys blat it was that black-mustached buckaroo there who ain't said a thing. I know too just from looking at him he's good with that gun. Better'n me by a longsight. Might be I even could dig up his name, having heard tell of it once or twice. You boys are Slash Y. I saw the brand when you rode in a while back. I kind of keep an eye out a window over there."
"My oh my," said Monte. "Peeping at us. And I thought everybody around here but that bartender was dead waiting to be buried."
"Now frizzle your hell-popping souls," said the man, cheerful, low-voiced. "Can't you at least help me by trying to look impressed? Maybe even a mite scared? Expect you don't know it but right now this minute I'm giving you a tonguelashing that's taking the hide right off you. Pieces of it lying all over the ground. I didn't make that fool law. Wouldn't be bothering you except I'm sheriff and election's near and I need the pay and those yokels back yonder are voters and I got to put on a show times like this. Like I say, I'm smart. Suppose I try to take Chavez in, why I know I got to handle all of you. Suppose I got away with it. Couldn't collect a fine. You ain't in Johnny's place which means you're plumb broke. So I'm just telling you off mean like this and letting you go because you didn't know about that law."'
"Not so smart," said Monte, bright, hopeful. "I knew about it."
"Didn't hear you," said the man. "I got well-trained ears. But don't go getting me wrong. Any of you really start something I'll have to do what I can. I'm middling good myself when pushed into it. But what'd that mean? Maybe grief for one or two of you and certain grief for my missus. So what I say is you plain got to use some gunpowder making noise, do it on the way out. Then I chase you to the limits and it'll look good to the voters and no harm done. That sound fair?"
"Fair enough," said Hat.
"Good," said the man, slow smile spreading again. "I take that right kindly. Now I see from your faces you're all a-quivering, all broke to bits, by this tongue-lashing I been giving." He chuckled. "At least that's the way I'll tell it where the votes are." He started to turn away.
"Hey, wait," said Monte. "Is this place always half dead?"
"Well, now," said the man. "We liven up some along toward evening. A few riders always coming in. Poker game at Johnny's most every night. Jake Morrel deals faro for anyone likes that."
"Any girls?" said Monte.
"Not that kind," said the man. He strode away. About by the wooden-umbrellaed well he hitched suggestively at his gunbelt, half turned, called out: "Remember now! Any more of that and I'll have your guns!"
Hat Henderson stared after him, scratching one ear. "I could almost stand living in this place," he said, "just to vote for that man."
"I bet," said Sunfish Perkins, "he plays a mean poker hand. Wonder who he is."
"Morrison," came a voice from the side. The bald-topped man was in the station doorway. "Cliff Morrison. You gentlemen might care to know it is one year, ten months, fourteen days he has been in office. In that time there have been six--beg pardon, now seven--shootings. Four of these--beg pardon, again, now five--were not serious. Two were. But not fatal. I regard that as a remarkable record. Of course, fights of various kinds are something else again. Would you care to know the figures?"
"Damned if we would," said Hat, collapsing to the ground, stretching out, closing eyes.
"Dobe," said Monte. "What do you think? You been mighty quiet."
"Ees a good man," said Dobe, subsiding in easy motion to siesta position. "Ees right he win the leetle game. The gun ees for the use, not the play."
"Shucks," said Monte. "Well, anyways, I knocked off some waiting time."
* * *
Antelope Junction drowsed in early afternoon sun. Four men slept or seemed to sleep under the scraggly cottonwood. Not Monte Walsh.
He sat, knees hunched up, arms wrapped around them, chin resting on them, surveying under pulled-down hat brim the sun-baked stretch across the way. A speck of movement caught attention. From behind one of the haphazard adobe huts appeared a small parcel of humanity, a knee-high boy, black-haired, brown-skinned, naked as a plucked jaybird. Serious, intent, the small parcel began to explore the intricacies of an old smashed egg crate.
"My oh my," murmured Monte. "Ain't that scandalous."
From behind the hut, hurrying, came another parcel, a waist-high girl in flour-sack dress. Expertly she hoisted the boy onto one small hip, rump foremost, and staggered away out of sight, smacking the bare rump in process.
"That's the way things go," murmured Monte. "Something male steps out for a little fun, something female clobbers him.,,
Attention was caught again. Out the door of the one store came the old man, stumbling under the weight of a box filled with assorted items. He made it down from the roofed platform and along to the decrepit wagon. He hoisted the box to the top of the tailgate and with a heave sent it over. At the clatter the mule raised its head, looked around, dropped the head again. The old man walked up by the mule and surveyed the tangled harness. He bent down and went to work on it.
Monte raised head a bit. Without shifting gaze he stretched one leg to nudge Chet Rollins. Chet sat up, stared at Monte, noted direction, looked, saw, settled to watching position.
The old man was satisfied with his untangling. He kicked the mule in the side. No reponse. He moved back a bit and kicked in a tenderer portion of anatomy. The mule grunted, struggled to feet, stood with legs apart, head drooping. The old man climbed stiffly to the wagon seat and took the reins. He slapped them down on the mule's back, clucked hopefully. The mule stood, motionless. The old man reached into the wagon, picked up an ancient limp whip, applied this with mounting indignation. The mule stood, motionless.
The old man climbed stiffly down, went back to the store, in. He came out carrying what looked like a hoe handle.
"Beating won't work," said Monte.
>
The old man climbed stiffly on the seat again. He reached into the wagon, lifted out an ancient big-roweled spur and a length of cord. Carefully he lashed the spur to one end of the hoe handle. He reached with this and jabbed the mule close by the rope-tail. The rule raised its head, grunted its own indignation. The old man jabbed again, hard, raking with the spur. Slowly, regretfully, the mule leaned into harness and the wagon moved. It swung in a slow arc, wheels creaking, and moved toward the road out of town.
"My oh my," said Monte. "Keep your eyes open, learn something every day."
"Man over beast," said Chet, relaxing down on back again, closing eyes.
Monte regarded him in disgust. He reached and plucked the small pouch from Chet's shirt pocket, explored its interior with blunt forefinger. He tucked it back in the pocket. He looked around at the others, all flat on ground. "Remind me of hawgs," he murmured. "Sleeping and growing fat." Faintly from the station came the sound of a sharp smack. He turned head in that direction. "Hey! Killer!" he shouted. "What's the score now?"
The bald-topped man's voice floated out, mildly triumphant. "One hundred and seven. Six ahead of yesterday."
In solemn satisfaction Monte regarded the others sitting up around him. "Hey!" he shouted again. "You got another swatter?"
"No," came the voice. "And I refuse all offers of assistance. This is a private feud."
"Jeeeesus, Monte," said Hat. "You're worse'n a goddamned horsefly." He stood up, stretched, stared out along the lost lonesome track, folded down again to the ground and lay back. "Hell of a way to run a railroad," he said. "Taking so damn long I'd say if we only had something on us we'd lay over here tonight and see what Morrison means about livening up."
* * *
Antelope function drowsed in midafternoon sun. Hat Henderson and Chet Rollins sat on the station platform, backs against the building, legs out, flipping pages of old yellowed magazines. Sunfish Perkins and Dobe Chavez hunkered on heels between the platform and the rails playing mumbletypeg, wearily, uninterested, with a long-bladed wicked-looking jackknife. Monte Walsh sat on the platform edge, long legs dangling, morosely surveying the structures across the way.
"I see how he got that way," said Monte. "You take to counting things. That makes four who've gone into the saloon since I squatted here. One fat, two thin, one about middling. Wonder what they're drinking."
Chet Rollins looked up. "There's a well out there," he said.
"Little sunshine, spreading cheer," said Monte without turning around. "Three times I been out to that damn thing since you stuck your nose in those pages. You know what's in there? Water. Ain't there something we could swap?"
"Peeg!" said Dobe Chavez, jumping up, taking hold of his hat with both hands, yanking it down on ears in disgust. "Stupid peeg!"
"Who?" said Monte, interested.
"Ees me," said Dobe. "Of a certainty. I forget." He strode off toward the second corral. He came back, carrying his bridle. On each side where headband and cheek strap met in a metal ring was soldered a silver dollar. He picked up the jackknife and began to pry them loose.
"Shucks," said Monte. "That ain't enough for tonight. Worth only another pint for now. Just a teaser. Make us thirstier'n ever."
"Peaches," said Chet Rollins.
"Now that," said Hat Henderson, pushing to his feet, "is the smartest remark I've heard this whole damned day. Come along."
Purposefully the trimmed-down trail crew of the Slash Y strode across what would have been the plaza and into the one store. Purposefully they strode back to the platform, each carrying a luridly labeled tin can, top removed, a small flat piece of wood sticking up. They sat in a row on the platform edge, eating peaches, lifting cans to gulp the syrup.
"Well, well, well," said Chet Rollins. "Here comes some of the livening."
Along the trace of a road, swinging in from the badlands, a four-horse stage swayed at a fair trot toward town. It pulled past the other buildings and stopped by the combination cafe and livery stable. The near door opened and an impressive figure backed out, a tall man, wide and softish of body, in an immaculate obviously expensive light gray suit whose pants were tucked into gleaming dustless high black boots with high curved heels, the whole of him topped by a huge high-crowned wide-brimmed white hat.
"My oh my," said Monte. "Ain't that pretty? Ain't that a hat?"
"Wonder how he'd look," said Sunfish, "after a couple days tailing cows out of mudholes."
There was activity on the other side of the coach. Three figures had descended through the other door and moved now into sight, headed toward ROOMS & EATS, a plumpish middle-aged man in sober attire escorting two women.
"Remarkable," said the bald-topped man from the station doorway. "Four people. I must mark that down. Three has been the record to date."
Monte Walsh pushed out from the platform and landed light on dusty worn boots. Bouncing a bit off his toes, he started away.
"Hey, Monte," said Hat. "Where you going?"
"It's a free country," said Monte, bouncing on. "A man has a right to a closer look."
He angled in by Rooms & EATS to take an apparently casual look through a wide low window. The three travelers were well inside, backs to him, the two women surveying the three bare-topped tables and rickety chairs and poster-plastered walls, the man listening to the stringy proprietor in greasy apron explain the situation. The voice carried plainly out through the still-open half of the double doorway. "Train'll be in any time now. But was I you I'd wait over here. The agent over there is, well, now, he's a mite peculiar. Talk an arm off you without half trying."
Monte bounced toward the doorway, thinking up a possible excusing inquiry. He stopped. One of the women was speaking. "Did you see them? Over by the tracks. Cowboys. How picturesque."
"Yes," said the other. "At a distance like that. But you know how they are when you get close."
"Goodness, yes," said the first with a small giggle. "All sweaty. They smell. Just like cows."
Monte Walsh turned away, striding back the way he had come, no longer bouncing. Back in his place in the row on the platform edge, he scowled down at his dusty worn boots.
"All right, Monte," said Hat at last. "What happened? We didn't see anybody bite you."
"If those things wore pants," said Monte, "I'd of scrambled them and this whole damn town. They said we smell. Like cows."
Silence lay over platform and station.
"Likely we do," said Chet Rollins, amiable, conversational. "That is, between scrubbings. Allover scrubbings I mean."
Silence lay again over platform and station. The baldtopped man disappeared inside. After a while a soft smack drifted out.
"Remember, boys," said Hat. "No popping at these cans."
"Shucks," said Monte. "They ain't no young heifers themselves. Just a couple baggy old cows."
* * *
Antelope Junction livened a bit in late afternoon sun. A buckboard with a patient flop-eared bay between shafts stood in front of ROOMS & EATS. Three cow ponies ignored each other's presences by SALOON's tie rail. A team of gaunt draft horses waited at the side door of the cafe and livery stable for someone to remember to unload the sacks of grain on the heavy wagon behind them.
Five men sat on the station platform watching the passings and repassings across the way.
"That makes seven going in to Johnny's," said Hat. "Add your four, Monte, and it's eleven. Throw in the bartender, twelve."
"No," said Monte. "Ten. Two came out."
"Gentlemen." The bald-topped man was in the station doorway but no longer bald-topped. He wore a round visored cap with small brass plate in front proclaiming AGENT. "You might care to know that it is getting along toward five o'clockish. I think you can begin to hope."
A stout red-faced red-haired man distinguished by open leather vest over polka-dotted shirt stepped out the door of SALOON. He was followed by others in bunches, not hurrying but plainly intent on going somewhere. They strung out behind the red-ha
ired man who was angling past the well. Three of them stopped by the cow ponies, unlooped reins, swung up, followed.
"Fifteen," said Hat. "We were way off."
"Shucks,"' said Monte. "They must use back doors in this place."
Other men mysteriously appeared, tagging along, some from the haphazard houses, several from the store, three from ROOMS & EATS.
"Well, well," said Monte. "Pretty Hat too. Must be a convention."
On came the growing crowd, moving past not far away to line along the front rails of the first corral. The three on the cow ponies swung down and one of them, rangy and very young, towheaded, slipped a lead rope around his horse's neck, handed the end to a companion, started to unsaddle.
"Morrison too," said Hat, returning a cheery wave from that square-faced individual. "We might as well see what's doing."
In compact bunch the trail crew of the Slash Y elbowed way to positions along the rails. The red-haired man stood by the gate, thumbs hooked in vest armholes. "Morrison," he said. "You have the stakes. You heard the proposition. No help from anyone. He has to do it alone."
The towheaded young one came forward, face serious, tight-lipped, saddle and bridle dragging from one hand, a coiled rope in the other. He heaved the saddle up on the gate.
"Open it," he said.
The red-haired man slipped the holfling bar, swung the gate just enough for the other to slip through, quickly closed it again.
In the rear left corner of the corral the raw-boned mottlehided horse stood motionless, weight settled on three legs, big hammerhead hung low. The towheaded man began to shake out a loop. Slowly the horse raised head, looked across the corral at him. Almost imperceptibly its weight shifted and it was balanced on all four feet, muscles tensed, waiting.
"Walleyed," murmured Monte Walsh. "And smart. Some bat-brained bastard's sure done a job spoiling that thing."