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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Down To The Frenchman’s Place
By Mark Mellon
Pierre rose with the cock’s crow at dawn. The rooster had crowed all night anyway, indifferent to the sun’s absence or presence, and really had nothing to do with Pierre’s early arisal, in contradiction to all prior habit. He’d done so from the belief that the owner of the Rocking M Ranch should be up early to set an example for his “hand.” He donned the beat up, broad brimmed, brown hat Yoko bought for him to celebrate the ranch’s purchase.
Outside, the air was still night-cool, no hint yet of the powerful heat to come. A small red disc topped the Clan Alpine Range and bathed the valley in soft, golden beams. There was the sweet smell of sage grass. Light and air, piercing and clean, filled his eyes and lungs. The ranch’s sheer immensity delighted Pierre. Empty space spread around him in all directions halted only by towering, snow-covered peaks that ringed the broad valley like the bastions of a mighty fortress. It was his, 150,000 hectares, almost 600 “sections” as the locals said.
He walked down the gravel road from the ranch house to the barn and corrals. Pierre looked in on the baby chicks, so charming with their “peeps” and pecking about. The coop and yard were protected by a large, rectangular enclosure made from wood and chicken wire with a strand of barbed wire along the bottom to stop predators from tunneling. The Dominique hens were locked in squabbling argument. Like Pierre, the big, Blue Cochin rooster was up early. About his duty, the lord of the coop proudly strutted round the yard. Pierre continued to the corrals.
They were brand new, made of fresh cut cedar, and the air was heavy with their scent. Inside the big corral, enormous brown bulks slowly shifted massive haunches and forequarters to placidly gaze from sloe eyes at Pierre. The Santa Gertrudis cows, bought just a week ago, gently lowed approval while Jack Hanrahan scattered feed cubes from a bucket over the manure-spattered dirt. In another corral, a black longhorn bull,shipped on special order from the Y-O Ranch in Texas, angrily bellowed for his meal.
“Bon jour, Jack,” Pierre said.
Jack cheerfully waved hello.
“Howdy, boss!” he said.
He smiled widely, blond locks spilling out from under his beat-up straw hat. Pierre had hired Jack because the young man exactly matched his image of a cowboy.
“Yoko and I,” Pierre said, “we went to bed early last night. Those coyotes, they make noise, Jack. Yip, yip, yip, all the night.”
“I’ll set more traps today,” Jack said. “You two aren’t nervous by yourselves, are you? I can always bunk in the trailer if you want me to keep an eye on things at night.”
“Oh, no, Jack, that is not necessary. Why, when you have a comfortable home with your family? Yoko and I are safer here than Paris or Tokyo. Who would bother us in the middle of the nowhere, eh? Ah, here is ma petite!”
Yoko came down the road. She saw Pierre, waved, and broadly smiled, the same evident delight in her face as when they’d first met a dozen years before. Her long, lank black hair, the small frame, and the ever-curious gaze were all so dear to him. She walked up and lightly kissed Pierre.
“Good morning, Pierre, Jack. What a lovely day!”
“Oui, ma chère, this is fine.” Yoko spoke no French, Pierre no Japanese. English won by default.
Pierre stretched his arms wide, brought them back, and slapped his chest with his hands.
“This fresh air, the early hour, this all gives me the big appetite. What do you say, Yoko, to the cowboy breakfast?”
“So I don’t have to cook?” Yoko said. “Excellent idea, Pierre.”
“That is, if you do not need my help with anything, Jack?” Pierre asked.
Jack smiled and said, “No, boss, don’t worry. I can keep on while you hit the greasy spoon. Heck, take your time. Go to Fallon.”
“Oh, no,” Yoko said. “The Tipped Sombrero is good place. I love the egg burritos.”
“OK, then,” Jack said. “Say hi to Joe for me.”
“Take care my little chicks are well fed,” Pierre said.
“Yes, sir, they’re next after I feed old ugly over there,” Jack said with a nod to the bull.
“Good, Jack,” Pierre said, “or as you are saying, ‘good on you.’”
Pierre and Yoko went back to the ranch house and got into their 2008 Jeep Commander, the finish heavily coated in dust. The enormous vehicle powered down the gravel, rumbled through the gate and over the cattle grate onto the road that bisected the valley. Yoko drove, seat at maximum elevation, small hands confidently on the wheel. They headed toward the farm road, flanked by the broad valley, its flat planes studded by creosote bushes tipped with dainty new yellow leaves from a recent shower, and scrub-covered, sandy mountains. Small black V’s circled high overhead in the distance, buzzards in search of food. They reached the farm road. It was fifteen miles from there to Highway 50.
Outside the Caddles’ house, Betty Caddle was hanging wet wash on a line to dry. Yoko honked the horn. Betty waved. Pierre and Yoko waved back.
“Howdy, Frenchie, Yoko,” Betty cried. “Have fun wherever you’re going!”
When they reached 50, Yoko turned right and drove for thirty miles. The road was empty. Yoko accelerated to eighty. Occasional a small truck or a van sped by in the opposite lane, each driver careful to wave hello.
“Everyone here is so nice, très sympathique,” Pierre said.
“So far, Pierre,” Yoko said. “Not many live here, but some may still be bad.”
“Ma chère, you are too much the no sayer,” Pierre said. He gestured grandly at the endless highway that stretched before them and the giant, snow-covered peaks in the background.
“Amid such glory, impure thoughts have no place, Yoko. Regard our neighbors, their generosity, the unsought favors and assistance they have rendered. Here man’s dark side is cleansed pure by the northern wind.”
"Yes, and I’m hungry. We’re here. I smell eggs cooking.”
The Tipped Sombrero Grill stood alone, just off 50 on a frontage road. A squat, cinder block building topped by a neon sign in the shape of a sombrero, the grill was a spot in the middle of nowhere for local ranchers and the occasional tourist headed to Reno. Joe saw them through the plate glass window before they reached the door and hustled over to open it.
“Pierre! Yoko! How are you folks this fine day? Come on, I’ve got your booth ready.”
With pomp and circumstance, the pot-bellied proprietor of the desert diner led them to a nearby booth. In the background, a steel guitar gently whined while a man crooned a lugubrious refrain, more of the plaintive country music Pierre found so fascinatingly quaint. Pierre noticed two young men, slumped in their chairs in a corner table.
“Howdy, cowhands,” he said, right hand held up palm forward in greeting, Indian chief style. “I am pleased to meet you.”
The men looked up. One wore a ball cap, the other a battered, felt cowboy hat, both with brims pulled low.
“I am Pierre Moerlin, owner of the Rocking M Ranch. Ma femme, I mean, my wife, Yoko.”
The man in the cowboy hat said, “Sure, we know you. Everybody in Churchill County either heard of you or read about you in the paper. You just bought the biggest spread in north Nevada. Pleased to meet you. Hope you like your breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Pierre said.
He sat down at the booth with Yoko.
“Who were those men?” Yoko asked.
Pierre thought a moment and said, “I don’t know this. They did not say.”
Joe fetched Pierre cappuccino and a double espresso for Yoko. Both came from the gleaming, new Pasquini Livia 90 that put to shame the humble coffee percolator next to it on the counter. On his first visit, Pierre had loudly inquired, “Mon Dieu, where is the cappuccino machine?” Anxious like a young lover to please the richest man he’d ever met, Joe had immediately ordered one.
Pierre sat engrossed in the menu. He weighed creamed beef hash on sourdough biscuits over a cowboy omelet.
“We shall commence with grapefruit halves, perhaps topped with the red sweet cherries, cher Joe,” he said.
Happy with Yoko, focused on a fine meal, Pierre was unaware as eyes bored into his defenseless back, as intent on prey as a coyote at night outside the chicken coop.
Munson and Gephardt lingered after Pierre and Yoko finished and went home. Around noon, both men ordered cheeseburgers and fries and started drinking beer. Gephardt tipped back his hat, bought the first pitcher, and ensured Munson’s glass stayed full. They conversed in low, conspiratorial tones and looked over their shoulders periodically to ensure Joe didn’t eavesdrop.
“Well, now you seen him. More money than God, less sense than a chicken,” Gebhardt said.
Munson shook his head and said, “I still don’t like going there.”
Gebhardt snorted and said, “Why? All that’s there is the Frenchie. No dogs. No hands at night. Nothing to it. Easier than pulling your boots on.”
“You said the corral’s near the ranch house,” Munson said. “How do you expect them not to hear us?”
Gephardt sighed and said, “I told you, Bob. We cut through Bruce Caddle’s spread to the north end of the Rocking M. When we hit Job Peak at the lip of the valley, I race to the top and cut the engine. We coast down to the Frenchman’s place in neutral, easy as pie. Plus no lights. They don’t see nor hear us. Once we reach the corral, I stop the truck, and we go to work.”
“They’ll hear us then,” Munson said, “and call the police.”
“It won’t take no time to load one heifer onto the trailer. We’ll be long gone before any police arrive, out onto 50, down to Elko where that fellow’s waiting I told you about.”
Munson nodded, grimaced, and drank more beer.
“Yeah, the one with money wanting prime stock cheap,” he said.
“Those are registered Santa Gertrudis,” Gephardt said. “That twerp Hanrahan was bragging at the Big Horn Saloon how the Frenchie paid five grand apiece. This guy will pay at least a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred, two grand. Don’t five hundred or maybe seven hundred-fifty or a thousand for just ten minutes work sound like a good deal, Bob?”
"The last good deal got us both a year at Northern Nevada,” Munson said.
Munson was proving resistant. Gephardt fell back on the usual, foolproof technique.
“You don’t want to ‘coz you’re scared of the Frenchman. That’s it.”
Munson smirked.
“That foreign fellow? In that silly hippy hat with that accent? That’s a good joke, Tim. It really is.”
“Only reason I can think of why you don’t want easy money,” Gephardt said. “You don’t have the guts any more.”
Munson flexed heavily muscled, tattooed forearms.
“I ain’t scared and you know it,” he said.
“Prove it tonight,” Gephardt retorted.
“I will. Don’t you worry,” Munson said.
“That’s better,” Gephardt said. “This calls for a pre-victory celebration.” He called out, “Garcon! Another pitcher of your finest French beer, seel-voo-play.”
Joe scowled, but nonetheless poured more beer. He walked over and set the pitcher down.
“Early, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, we can handle it,” Gephardt said.
Munson and Gephardt finished the pitcher and went to the truck. Gephardt drove forty miles on 50 to Fallon, to a trailer they rented in a mobile home park just outside town. Sodden with food and beer, they slept through the hot afternoon and into the night. Near 10:00, Gephardt came to, sweaty and slightly hungover.
“Time to go,” he shouted.
Munson hitched a rusty livestock trailer to the truck. Gephardt drove to the MK on Taylor where they bought headache powders, fried chicken dinners, and more beer. They ate in the parking lot and washed headache powders down with beer. Gephardt wiped his mouth free of chicken grease with a napkin and asked, “You ready?”
Munson cracked open another beer and said, “Get ‘er done, cowboy.”
They drove east from Fallon. Outside town, the truck was alone on 50, the loneliest highway in the country. Without even trucker’s lights to break the darkness, the only light came from their headlights and the full moon that painted the stark landscape silver. Gephardt turned on the radio.
There’s no other place I’d rather be than right here,
Red necks, white socks, and Blue Ribbon beer
Munson scowled and said, “Put on that Kenny Chesney CD instead.”
“You got to find it first,” Gephardt said.
They passed the Tipped Sombrero. Closed for the night, the diner was dark and shuttered, but the neon sombrero was still lit, a brightly orange and purple apparition that flickered in the high desert.
“You got to admit Joe makes a pretty decent burger,” Munson said.
“Yeah, whatever,” Gephardt said. “Hand me another beer.”
They drove without speaking after that until they reached the farm road. Gephardt pulled onto the two-lane blacktop. He turned the stereo off
“Hey,” Munson said, “I like that song!”
“Be quiet. I’m looking,” Gephardt said. He drove at a snail’s pace, anxiously scanning the right shoulder.
"There!”
He pulled over, turned off the lights, then reached under the seat and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters.
“Wait here,” he said.
There was a gate in the barbed wire fence near the farm road, used by the Caddles to make it easier to load stock, secured by a padlock. Gephardt severed the shackle with the boltcutters. He pulled the gate open, hustled back to the truck, and drove past the wire.
“Shut the gate,” he said to Munson, “so nobody notices!”
Gate shut, Gephardt drove down the white tracks of a trail worn into the desert by truck wheels, but soon turned off into the desert, toward the high peaks that marked the Rocking M’s edge. With the lights off, eyes young and keen, Gephardt drove by the moon alone. The rustlers crossed a stark landscape, leached of color by the night, the ground’s pale folds flecked with the black dots of scrub pines, topped by the sheer white of the mountain peaks and the pockmarked moon above. Gebhardt stopped and cut a hole in the wire fence that separated the two ranches. He revved the engine to gain momentum and raced up the rock-studded, low pass that cut through the Stillwater Range.
Atop Job Peak, Gephardt cut the engine and shifted into neutral. The truck rolled down the sharp incline at a vigorous clip. The trailer’s ungreased axles squeaked vigorously in protest as the truck went down the mountain’s south slope.
“They’ll hear that,” Munson said.
“I told you, grease ‘em,” Gebhardt said, “now be quiet!”
The truck hit the valley floor and the ranch road. They coasted at well over thirty.
“What’d I tell you,” Gebhardt said.
A slow tug against the truck’s moving weight grew in strength, inertia’s pull as they slowly lost momentum. The speedometer dipped to fifteen.
“Come on!” Gebhardt cried.
The truck stopped, miles from the corral. Munson gave Gephardt a scornful look.
“Oh, this new plan is working out just jim dandy,” he said.
Gephardt hissed in disgust, started the engine, put it in gear, and drove hell for leather for the corrals, trailer loudly bouncing behind.
“Now they’ll hear us,” Munson said.
“So they hear us,” Gephardt said. “That Frenchie won’t do nothing, but hide. We swoop in and out.”
“I guess. No choice, but to be quick about it,” Munson said.
They reached the corrals. Gephardt stopped the truck.
Yoko awoke first, bolt upright, fully conscious, alertly listening.
"Pierre. Pierre! Wake up. I hear something.”
Exhausted from an early arisal and more fortified than usual by several extra glasses of red wine, Pierre was in an unusually deep funk of sleep. Slowly, he swam back from the depths.
“C'est quoi, ça, ma femme?” he said.
“Don’t talk French,” Yoko said. “Wake up and listen, there’s an engine. Someone’s coming.”
Pierre rubbed his bleary eyes. A distinct mechanical roar steadily gained strength.
“You are right, ma chère. We should get up.”
The couple got out of bed and hurriedly dressed. Pierre turned on a lamp. The engine suddenly stopped, nearby, by the sound.
“I’m calling the police,” Yoko said.
“Yoko, is that necessary? Someone we know may come to visit unannounced.”
“Out here?” Yoko said. “I have a bad feeling, Pierre. No one friendly comes at this hour.”
“Very well, Yoko,” Pierre said.
Yoko called 911. Calmly and concisely, she told the police dispatcher her name, their address, and what they’d heard.
“May be rustlers,” the dispatcher said. “There’s a couple of units on the way right now. Stay in the house with the lights off. Don’t go outside. Let us handle it.”
“Yes, officer,” Yoko said.
Gebhardt grabbed the rope and halter.
“Open the trailer and put down the ramp,” he said.
“Please wouldn’t hurt you none,” Munson said as he got out of the truck.
“Just get on with it!”
Gebhardt ran to the corral. He vaulted over the cedar posts. The cattle were drowsy with sleep and it was no difficulty to slip the halter over one. The problem was making her move afterwards.
“Come on!” Gebhardt hissed.
He tugged on the rope. The Santa Gertrudis simply braced her haunches and stayed put the way only fifteen hundred pounds can.
“Bob! Come here and gimme a hand,” Gephardt said.
Munson climbed over the corral fence and said, “What?”
“Twist this old bossy’s tail. Make her move.”
“Just like you to give me the dirty job,” Munson said.
Nonetheless, Munson painfully twisted the animal’s tail, standing well away from her back hooves.
“Muuuaagghhh!”
The cow moaned and started forward. Once moving, it was little problem to open the corral gate and lead her into the trailer.
“We got it now,” Gephardt said.
Yoko and Pierre stood in their living room in the dark, anxiously listening and waiting. The silence was broken by a cry of animal pain.
“Mon Dieu. That was one of our cows. Some human beast tortures mes pauvres,” Pierre said. “I cannot endure this helpless waiting anymore. I must succor my animals.”
“No, Pierre, no,” Yoko said. “We wait for the police like they told us.”
“I will not wait,” Pierre said. “A man does what he must do, ne c’est pas, Yoko?”
"Pierre, do not go outside!” Yoko ordered.
But he was already out the door, hat firmly clamped over his ears.
Gephardt started the engine and put the truck into drive.
“Elko, here we come!” he said.
“Turn the lights on so you can see,” Munson said.
“Guess you might be right,” Gephardt said, conciliatory in his triumph. He thumbed on the headlights and tore down the gravel road.
Pierre hurried down the gravel road, fearful for his charges. He heard an engine start. The glare of headlights blinded his dark-accustomed eyes. Pierre threw his arms out.
“Arretez-vous. Halt, you criminals!” he cried.
“What’s that?” Munson said. “Somebody ahead. Stop, Tim, before you kill him!”
“Too late, now,” Gephardt cried.
BLLAAAM!
The windshield exploded into a million bits of safety glass. The truck wildly careened right and slammed into a ditch with a resounding crash. The cow was thrown to the front of the trailer. She howled indignantly. Yoko stood next to Pierre, a sizable shotgun in her hands, both barrels smoking.
“Eh, Yoko, what have you done?” Pierre said.
“I found it in the closet,” she said. “It almost knocked me over.”
“You may have killed someone, ma chère. We must hurry to see if we can help.”
They went to the truck.
“Help!” a man cried.
“Fear not, mon brave, we are coming,” Pierre said.
Yoko and Pierre peered into the truck. Two men lay sprawled together, cut and torn from buckshot, shaken and battered, but still more or less in one piece.
“They are the ones at chez Joe,” Pierre said.
“Yes, and they are criminals too,” Yoko said. “They tried to steal our cow. You see, Pierre. There are bad people here, just as everywhere else.”
There was a distant wail that slowly grew in strength and intensity. In the distance, they saw blue and red lights flash, two squad cars racing down the valley to the ranch house.
Pierre sighed and said, “Perhaps you are right, ma chère. But at least we have saved our cow.”
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