On the upright, above the crosspiece, the Slash Y brand. Below, on the wide crosspiece itself:
WILLIAM (POWDER) KENT
184?-1888
A Good Man With a Gun
* * *
"Smartest hoss around is that Monkey of Monte's. Dun it is, which he says is the real hoss color. I kind of favor grays myself an' steeldust's the best of them but I got to admit I never seen a dun yet that wasn't plenty of hoss. Monte sets a lot of store by that old Monkey Face. Was stole once an' he was fit to be tied. He an' Chet did a lot of riding an' Dobe oiled up that gun of his an' went along a few times but no luck. One time they got back here all wore out an' there's that hoss waiting for 'em right by the corral. Feet sore an' plenty thin an' a piece of broke rope dragging from its neck. But here. Scratched like it'd been through plenty fences. But here. Must of come a mighty long ways. But here. Monte he just sat down on the ground and you'd of thought he was going to bawl like a baby. Hoss like that can get to a man.
"Worth more'n a lot of men too. Chet he likes to say that hoss knows more'n Monte hisself. There was the time a comp'ny man was out here an' had a kid with him an' that fool kid took sick an' Doc said he had to have medicine reg'lar in warm milk. Not can milk, fresh milk. Doc was partic'lar on that. Where'd he think we was going to get it? No milk cows around here. Monte an' Chet they said they'd handle it. Brought in three cows that looked like maybe they could spare some from their calves. Better'n a circus the first times watching Chet rope them things an' Monte wrassle with 'em trying to get some juice. Never too easy but they got used to it a course. But them calves wasn't helpful. Stole all the milk ev'ry chance they got. So Monte took to putting them in the corral days which'd make their mommas hang around grazing in close an' putting the cows in at night an' the calves out which'd keep them hanging around too. Let 'em get together only after he'd got what milk the kid needed. Did that shifting on old Monkey Face 'cause that hoss is always handy an' don't need no catching an' he could just pop onto it any old time bareback without bothering with no bridle or hackamore an' do the job in jig time. Just talk to it with his legs. Nudge that hoss right an' it can spin on a nickel an' give you four cents change. Only a few days an' it knew what the score was good as Monte hisself. Like Chet says, maybe better.
"One morning somebody leaves the gate open or don't fasten it tight an' it blows open before Monte's got his milk. Them calves go scooting out bawling for their mommas an' their breakfast which ain't far away. Monte hears an' goes a-running. But he ain't even needed. That Monkey hoss has everything under control. He's herding them calves right back in that corral an' plunking hisself across the gate hole to keep 'em there an' kicking away any mommas that've got notions of trying to get in."
Hellfire
1881-1893
HE WAS CUT and branded as a yearling.
His father was a big-boned thoroughbred from somewhere in Tennessee that proved to be too all-around mean for track work and was shunted here and there always at a lower price until bought by the Triple Seven in New Mexico Territory for a range stud. His mother was a medium-sized western mare with plenty of mustang in her background, not much to look at, being over heavy as to head and hindquarters, but tough enough to fight four wolves off herself and current colt in a little snow-clogged box canyon in the winter of '81, killing two in the process and carrying scars to prove it for the several years afterward until a mountain lion ran her over a low cliff and she broke her neck in the fall.
She belonged, in a loose sort of way, to Pony Jim Greenwood, who had a small place bordering the Triple Seven range. At least his brand was on her. He claimed he had caught her wild and that was a fair story because he had been a mustanger years back, though there did seem to be traces of other markings under that brand. He tried to ride her some and she would not get over her habit of waiting to catch him unaware and pitch him into cactus, so he let her run loose, figuring she would pay for her keep with the regular increase, what with Triple Seven studs being handy. She came to the Slash Y, heavy-bellied in foal, when something out of the past came close enough to make Pony Jim think it might catch up and he wanted to sell fast and the outfit bought him out, taking over his bit of range and his scattered scraggily stock.
"Homely as sin, ain't she?" said foreman Hat Henderson when they were checking what the outfit had bought and finding it not much. "I'll bet when she drops that load she's carrying, it won't even look like a hoss. I say find some foureyed fool's mislaid his specs and get rid of her for whatever he'll pay."
"Shucks, no," said Monte Walsh. "Remember those wolves Puny Jim told about? She's the one."
So he was born on Slash Y range out of a Slash Y mare, big-boned like his father, homely as sin like his mother. Deep dun in color with a darker patch along his back shading at the ends into almost-black mane and tail. About eleven months later when Dally Johnson forefooted him and threw him, he fought the rope like his mother fighting wolves and Chet Rollins had to loop his hind legs and the two of them stretch him out and Monte Walsh dismount and sit on his head before Powder Kent could go to work proper with the knife and the iron. Even so, half-sized and spindly as he still was, he tried to fight, thrashing on the ground like a wounded snake, and Powder was sweating by time he was through.
"That thing," said Powder, stepping back, unaware at the time he was bestowing a name, "is sure full of hellfire."
When they let him up he was snapping his baby teeth and kicking in all directions at once and he raced for the herd where his mother was waiting red-eyed and anxious on the outer edge. A while later they were both gone, having slipped past Dobe Chavez and Sunfish Perkins riding herd and headed for the badlands bordering the mountains where there were only simple uncivilized things like wolves and such to worry about. There, though he still had plenty of growing to do to hang enough tough muscle on those big bones, by the time that lion ran his mother over the cliff he was able to take care of himself.
* * *
As a three-year-old he was passed up in the regular breaking. They combed him out of the badlands all right, along with the few others in there, but when he was in the new holding pasture rimmed with taut barbed wire, he promptly got himself caught in the wire, cut his legs and belly bad, and got himself out again. He was in no condition for any working.
"Jeeeesus!" said Hat Henderson. "I'd swear he done that a purpose! Let him go an' take his chances. If he dies, it ain't much loss. If he don't, we'll get him next year."
"Shucks, no," said Monte Walsh. "He ain't got no sense at all or else too damn much. Either way we can't let him go a-bleeding like that."
So Chet Rollins and Dally Johnson stretched him out on the ground again and Monte fought him, rubbing axle grease into the cuts, and when they let him up and opened the gate he streaked for the badlands and the simple things like wolves and lions.
"I'll sure be watching, Monte," said Powder Kent, "when you climb aboard that thing next year. That is, if you can even get a saddle on him."
* * *
They did not get a saddle on him the next year. They did not even get him down to the holding pasture. They sighted him a few times while they were working the badlands and finding more horses than usual in there but they never were within sniffing distance of him. He knew that rugged terrain the way a coyote knows its own immediate range and he could fade away, simply disappear. Monte Walsh wanted really to take out after him but Hat Henderson said no, they were pushed for time from a late start and to hell with Hellfire anyway.
The next year they never even sighted him though they combed even more horses out of those badlands. It was surprising how many of the Slash Y horses were off the regular range and in that rough country where it took considerable foraging to keep a full belly. They were shy a few too until they caught a glimpse of a horse on up where the big rock climbed in steep canyon-cut mountain slopes and no stock went except in the dryest years when grass was scarce on the lower levels. Two of the men hammeredon up and found the missi
ng few. But never a whiff of Hellfire, except maybe some barefoot tracks leading on up in that high-rock region. It was during the next year they caught on to what was happening.
"I spotted old Hellfire today," said Sunfish Perkins. "Out on the flats too. Know what he was doing? He was trying to coax some of the bosses into them hills with him."
"Jeeesus!" said Hat Henderson. "That's his game, is it? I say shoot the bastard, the next one that sights him."
"Shucks, no," said Monte Walsh. "That thing's for me. Iain't a-going to be happy till I've sat a saddle on him."
* * *
So they got him that year, though it took considerable doing accompanied by plenty of cussing because he was mighty fast over rough country and they had to go high up and spook him out of half a dozen hiding places and when he was driven down lower he knew how to take them through the thickest thorniest brush. But Chet Rollins was downright peeved by now and Chet when peeved and his thick-necked black and a coil of rope were quite a combination and when hellfire was pocketed in the same box canyon where his mother took on the wolves the others held the entrance and that combination crashed right after him until Chet had a loop around his neck and choked him into respect for it. Chet kept that rope on him, choking and yanking him until he learned to lead, all the way in.
They took no chances on wire-cutting and put him direct into the high-railed small corral. Monte Walsh got a battered double-rig saddle on him, cinched tight, but had to do that on the ground with Chet and Dally Johnson stretching him out on his side and the solid weight of Sunfish Perkins sitting on his big head. Monte had a fast-dodging time of it putting a stout hackamore on that head, with an oversize knot under the soft part of the lower jaw where it could give punishment when he pulled hard on the reins.
They let him up, blindfolded and with one foreleg doubled up in a pigging rope, and he stood braced on three legs, shuddering in the darkness of not seeing, muscles bunching and twitching under the hide all over him. The others slipped out leaving Monte alone in there with him. All the hands were round about, including cook Skimpy Eagens, outside the rails or on them. Range manager Cal Brennan had come over from the ranch house.
"Monte," said Cal, leaning his long aging frame on the gate. I kind of like the looks of you all in one piece. You'n Chet've broke every hoss around here needed breakin'. I'm willin' to skip this one."
"Shucks, no," said Monte. "It's a horse, ain't it?"
It was a horse all right. At least it resembled a horse in some ways and it certainly was not anything else. Big-boned and homely as sin with big hammerhead and big-muscled neck that looked thin in proportion to that head and huge humped withers and long slab-sided but deep barrel leading back to heavy hindquarters and all of that looking like crude molded power and set on long thickish legs ending in big splatty hoofs.
Hellfire stood there shuddering and muscle-twitching and Monte moved in, mighty wary, and took the reins and held them in his left hand on the saddle horn and reached with his right hand to loosen the pigging rope and as the rope fell and the foreleg went down he was up in the saddle.
Hellfire stood there shuddering more and Monte leaned forward and flipped off the blindfold and Hellfire went into action.
He was no bucker. That was too usual and tame and civilized for him. He was a high stiff-legged jumper and jolter and twister and wrencher regardless of the pounding and punishment he gave himself. He had the meanness of his father and the concentrated-on-occasion fury of his mother and he put all of both into every jump and jolt and twist and wrench. He piled Monte on the ninth jump and blazed both heels at him as he went rolling.
"Yow-eee!" yelled Monte Walsh, dodging and scrambling to his feet. "I knew that thing'd teach me a few!" With a rush and a flying leap off old boot soles he was back in the saddle.
Eighteen minutes later Monte had been in the dust four times and thirteen jumps was the best he had stayed and he was down now for the fifth time. He staggered up and leaned against rails. Blood dripped from his nose and his head wobbled some and a rip in his old pants down one thigh showed raw flesh where a hoof had scraped. "Well, now," he said between gasps for breath. "That's a start anyhow. I'll get that son of a bitch tomorrow."
Chet Rollins on a top rail looked down at Monte dripping blood and tossed him a bandanna. "He's wore down some now. Guess I'll try him," said Chet and hopped down. Ten minutes later Chet leaned against rails beside Monte considerably dusty and disheveled and seven jumps had been his best and the rest of the Slash Y hands looked at each other in a self-conscious silence.
"The hell weeth eet," said Dobe Chavez. He opened the gate and eased in.
Fifty minutes later every man in the outfit except Skimpy Eagens and Cal Brennan had been thrown as many times as he would take it and Hellfire stood in the corral a very tired horse, dripping sweat and blowing a bloody froth from nostrils, but more than ready for any further action required.
"Jeeeeeesus!" said Hat Henderson, rubbing a sprained ankle. "He ain't exactly what you might call wear-downable."
Three days later Chet Rollins sat on a top rail, heels hooked under the next lower, looking with solemn interest at Hellfire out in the corral. Monte Walsh leaned close by against rails, hatless, ripped shirt dark with sweat, wiping away driblets of blood that oozed slowly from his nose down over his upper lip. Cal Brennan stood a few feet away, outside the rails, rocking gently on absurdly high-curved-heel boots.
"My oh my oh my," murmured Monte. "Ain't that a horse."
"It's a jinx, that's what it is," said Cal. "We got other bosses to be broke. You can't spend all your time on this one. Three days you've been workin' him. What do you say?"
"Well-1-1 now," said Monte. "I can stay on him. That is, long as I can take it. But I can't ride him. I've learned his ways and I can stay up there but I can't teach him a thing. He don't know nothing but fighting. He plain won't quit." Monte sighed and stared out across trodden dust at Hellfire. "Yes sir," he said. "I always knew some day I'd find a horse I couldn't ride. But I always thought when that happened I'd be mad. Somehow I ain't."
"It's good for you," said Chet Rollins, amiable, conversational. "Keep you from being too all-fired cocky."
"Hopeless?" said Cal. "That it?"
"Oh, there's ways," said Monte. "Fix up a mean rig and beat him into it. Maybe starve him down. But I ain't ever done that yet to a horse. Likewise I ain't ever heard of a good horse being made that way." Monte sighed again and stared across trodden dust at Hellfire, waiting, more than ready for any further action required. "Likewise again I ain't even sure anything'd work with him. Likely he'd make it killing without curing."
"All right," said Cal, crisp, decisive. "Turn him loose. It's comin' winter an' he can't cause trouble. Come spring an' he's up to tricks somebody'll have to shoot him."
* * *
When they turned him loose he did not streak for the badlands. He seemed to know he had won some kind of a victory and stayed with the other horses down on the level and in bad weather close in by the ranch buildings. He could be brought in with the others with no extra trouble at all and when Monte Walsh tried him a few more times he was mighty respectful of a rope around his neck and failed to fight the saddle, seeming to know that was merely a preliminary. But the instant Monte was up he exploded into action and he never quit except to stand stiff-legged, ignoring reins and spurs, gulping in air and gathering strength to explode again.
When spring came and far-riding work was starting, they found a temporary use for him. There were quite a few drifting cowhands, mostly from Texas, roaming through and riding up to the ranch buildings for the good meals they knew they would get and pestering Cal Brennan for jobs to tide them over the season. The Slash Y kept its own men the year round, working with a tight competent crew, not laying off in the fall and taking on in the spring, but it could use another good man now and again if Cal thought he would qualify. When a long-legged Texan would get to blowing about the riding and the roping he could do, Cal woul
d say: "Chet. Bring in old Hellfire." And when Hellfire, respectful of the rope around his neck, was saddled and hackamored and blindfolded and the rope was off, Cal would say to the Texan: "Stick on that hoss six jumps an' you've got a job."
One man did stick. He was big and black and long-armed and he rode in on a sorry swayback horse and he walked in his old boots with a kind of shambling gait and gave his name, smiling, as Nigger Jack Moore. He kept count and after the sixth jump he was either piled or threw himself off and rolled fast to dodge Hellfire's parting heel salute and stood up and said: "Boss, if I gotta have that hoss in my string, I don't want the job." He made a good hand, though stand-offish and not mixing much, and Cal was somewhat disappointed when he drifted away in the fall.
But one day Hellfire threw a man on the third jump, from Colorado he said he was, and the man hit with a leg doubled and broke it and they had to have him around listen to him for six weeks before he could hobble to ride on. He was nasty-tempered and took advantage of his condition to display that temper in remarks. If he had stayed longer until the leg was fully healed, he might have left in a real hurry and in somewhat battered shape.
"I see that stunt can backfire," said Cal Brennan. "No more of it. Maybe we can sell him to Stevens when I see him again for meat for that bear-huntin' pack of hounds he has."
"Goddamn it, no!" said Monte Walsh. "That horse ain't agoing to feed no dogs!"
So Hellfire was still around ready any time to throw any man who tried to sit a saddle atop that dark patch along his back and to do any damage possible to that would-be rider in the process and Monte would look off at him a long minute or two if he was in sight before swinging aboard one of the horses he and Chet were gentling and teaching the things good cow ponies need to know before they go on and learn the fine points of doing by doing. And then one day early the next spring Cal Brennan was able to enter in one of the old notebooks he kept for the edification of the company auditor the scrawled notation: Recd for one horse-$75. And to underline that word one.