Monahan's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  Dooley stopped, his mouth dropping open, then arced away from the slashing blade. He backed up against the side of the wagon.

  “I got what . . . ?” he shouted.

  “I seen you,” Atkinson said. “You’re after my sweetheart.”

  “Is this why . . . are you . . . Zerelda Dobbs?”

  He ducked again as the knife went over his head, and fell to his knees, came up, remembered where he had dropped the Colt, and reached under the dark water, groping and praying, and coming up fast and away from the knife as Atkinson slammed it down.

  It splashed and disappeared in Rhine Creek, and Dooley turned around, watching the big man on his hands and knees in the creek. Dooley looked at his own right hand. It held no Colt, but he had managed to snatch up a fair-sized rock.

  As Atkinson looked up and brought both hands out of the water, Dooley reared back his right arm, let it windmill a couple of rotations, and let the rock fly. It smashed perfectly underneath the giant’s nose, and although the thick black beard cushioned the blow, Ewing Atkinson fell backward, his feet stretched out in the water before him. His face seemed stunned, as blood drenched his beard. With his left hand, he touched his smashed lips. He frowned, then spit out blood and a couple of rotten teeth, and quickly climbed to his feet.

  “I’ll kill you for that,” he said, and spit out more blood.

  “You were going to kill me for some nonsense that I wanted Zerelda,” Dooley reminded him.

  “I kill you,” the giant said, and shook water off his big bowie. “Twice.”

  Dooley had always heard that buffalo could run incredibly fast, which most people would not expect for such cumbersome-looking shaggy beast. But Dooley knew that Ewing Atkinson could move with blazing speed when he wanted to, and right then, Dooley knew that the mountain-sized man wanted to. He sprang forward, the knife held low near his waist, his eyes now burning with seething hatred. Dooley didn’t wait long, but held his place just long enough, then dived to his left as Atkinson brought the blade up with a grunt. The knife cut nothing but air, and Atkinson fell onto the bank of Rhine Creek.

  Dooley had landed in the water, and he also leaped to his feet. He had tried to find another rock to hurl, but this time all his two hands came up with were globs of mud. He threw those in the general direction of Ewing Atkinson, but mostly the mud just splashed into the creek.

  As Dooley shook most of the remaining grime from his hands, he thought about making a dash for the place where his Colt lay submerged. That would be a gamble, though. Certainly, water filled the barrel and chambers by now, and maybe even a lot of mud.

  The killer’s horse looked up from the water, snorted, and began urinating in the creek.

  That gave Dooley another idea, and he backed up, spreading out his arms again, shooting a glance at the wagon, then focusing again on the killer.

  “Your scalp,” Atkinson said, trying to taunt Dooley, but his busted mouth just made the threat sound more comical than threatening, “will look good on my overalls.”

  Dooley smiled. “A man’s scalp?” He shook his head. He had learned how to taunt, too. “Tell me something, you dumb ox. Did you ever take the scalp of a man you actually killed? I mean . . .” He pointed at the wet scalps. “I guess you killed the women, maybe, and the kids. Even the dogs. Well, maybe not the dogs. Hell, maybe not the kids. Yeah, now that I think on it, I figure Doc Watson or even Zee killed most of the people. You just lifted the scalps. Hell, you probably even had to get someone to tie those locks to your overalls.”

  The roar sounded like a volcano erupting, and Ewing Atkinson charged, but now rage blinded the killer, and Dooley easily sidestepped the charging man as he slammed into the rear wheel of the wagon, which shuddered, and even lifted partly off the ground before the wagon settled back and sank a little deeper into the muddy bottom of the creek. That disturbance caused General Grant to snort and flatten his ears.

  Atkinson had to grab hold of the spokes to keep from slipping into the wagon. He shook his head, spraying snot and saliva and blood this way and that, and spun around, but that blow had staggered him, and it took a moment for him to push himself to his feet.

  Again, Dooley looked back toward Yankton and down the road to the Missouri River. Again, nobody appeared anywhere. He cursed his luck. Here he was, spitting distance from a ferry and one of the most navigated rivers in the western United States and even closer to the territorial capital of Dakota Territory, which was filling up with gold seekers by the score. And nobody—not one damned person—was here when he needed a little help.

  Atkinson took a step, brought the blade up again, and slowly approached Dooley, who stepped back and to his right. He moved again, barely lifting his boots, pushing against the fast-flowing creek. Dooley stepped back. Atkinson came forward. Dooley moved to his side. Atkinson did the same.

  A standoff. Stalemate. Each man waiting for the other to make a mistake.

  Dooley wet his wet lips. He moved again, back, and then upstream. Upstream.

  That, he told himself, should be just right. He moved to his right.

  “I kill you,” Atkinson mumbled. “Then Miss Zerelda will love me. Only me.”

  “I would not interfere with your bliss,” Dooley told him, and stepped to his right one last time.

  He waited. Atkinson made the same move, and brought the knife up over his right shoulder.

  “Yeeeeee-hiiiiii!” Dooley screamed. “Yippie, yippie, hoooo-rraaaaahhh!!!!!!”

  He couldn’t see behind the behemoth, but he got a glimpse of General Grant. When Atkinson had crashed against the wheel, the violence had pricked the bay gelding’s nerves, and Dooley’s sudden shouts and screams made the horse kick out with both of his hind legs.

  “Ummmph!”

  The hooves caught Ewing Atkinson square in his back and propelled the giant toward Dooley. That, Dooley had not actually considered when he had concocted the plan. Actually, he had hoped the gelding’s hooves would have come up a little higher, catching the giant’s neck or head, smashing both to cinders. Instead, the bowie knife whirled dangerously close to Dooley’s head. He heard and felt the rush of air as the blade sliced just a few inches from Dooley’s ear. And then Ewing Atkinson—no bashed-in brain, no broken neck, and very much still a living, breathing menace—came crashing straight into Dooley Monahan, driving both men into the murky, now bloody, Rhine Creek.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It hurt to breathe . . . perhaps because Dooley could not breathe. He got his head out of the water, blinked away pain and water, and understood that Ewing Atkinson straddled him, crushing his chest, his lungs, and dripping blood and mucus into Dooley’s face. He could just make out the man’s bloody, bearded face, and saw two hands the size of a baby whale come toward Dooley’s throat.

  Dooley brought his right hand up. He knew he couldn’t stop the man. He knew he was dead. Yet his hand felt different, and as he slammed it into Atkinson’s solid stomach, he heard the big man cry out like an alley cat.

  Air filled Dooley’s lungs. By thunder, he thought, none of his ribs had even been cracked and snapped like twigs. He sat up, surprised to find that the giant had fallen off of Dooley.

  No time to think. No time to do anything. Dooley used his left arm to push himself to his knees, and then jumped to his feet. He staggered back a few paces, caught his breath, shook his head, and came up, prepared to face Ewing Atkinson one final time.

  The big man was on his hands and knees, his back to Dooley. Charge? Dooley considered it. Jump on the man’s back. But then what? Dooley’s chest heaved as his lungs worked for air. He looked down the road toward Yankton, but the pike remained deserted. Quickly, he faced Atkinson again. The killer had managed to stand, though unsteady, and slowly turned around to stare at Dooley.

  That’s when Dooley understood what had happened. He stepped back, but his boots slipped in the mud, and back he fell into the creek.

  Blood streamed from Atkinson’s mouth, drenching the beard, as the man brou
ght both hands to the handle of the bowie that stuck just below his ribs. The right hand missed, but the left hand caught the handle, and tugged. Strong as he was, even Ewing Atkinson could not pull the big knife free with one hand.

  Dooley’s stomach churned. He had not even realized he held the knife, couldn’t recall touching it, grabbing it, or anything. He had thought he was hitting the killer, not stabbing him deep.

  Now Atkinson brought his right hand up again, and the massive fingers wrapped around his left hand. He staggered, almost fell, but righted himself, and looked again at Dooley as both hands tugged hard. The knife tore free, and blood rushed from the ugly hole.

  The killer’s lips moved, but he only coughed up more blood. He could not speak, but he did not have to, for Dooley knew exactly what the man wanted to say.

  I’m dead . . . but I’m taking you with me.

  Dooley tried to get to his feet, as the killer raised the bowie over his head and lurched toward him, gurgling as his eyes began to glaze over. Just then, something roared, and the top of Ewing Atkinson’s head disappeared in an explosion of gore and blood. Dooley rolled over and over, heard the gargantuan splash into the creek, and then Dooley was standing, staring down at the dead fiend for just a moment.

  That’s when Dooley’s own legs buckled, and he was sitting on the bank. He could see the dead killer, the creek carrying the blood and gray bits of brain—and two of the scalps that had come loose—downstream and into the Missouri River. He shook his head and looked at the wagon. General Grant remained tethered, and no longer kicking. Atkinson’s horse had moved out of the water and onto the bank, to graze on spring wildflowers. The wagon remained where it was, the mules waiting sleepily on the road.

  It occurred to him that he could mount General Grant and ride away . . . or even take the supplies Dobbs and Handley had purchased for him—and be off to Deadwood and the Black Hills. But that would mean leaving Blue with a pack of cutthroat vermin. Dooley had not been willing to let a bunch of Sioux Indians take his horse. He certainly wasn’t going to abandon a loyal dog to the likes of Hubert Dobbs and his kind.

  Not that he had a choice. Not now anyway.

  “I swan, Doosey,” a nasal drawl sounded in his ear. “Never thought I’d live to see anybody kill ol’ Ewin’. You done good, love. Killed him fair and square and deader than Moby-Dickens.”

  Zee Dobbs knelt in front of Dooley and kissed him full on the lips.

  She tasted like snuff.

  * * *

  “You killed him.” His voice sounded hollow.

  “Nah.” Zee spit into the stream. “You stuck him plumb center.” She tapped the spot with a small, dirty fist. “He likely had jus’ ’bout bled out. I just prevented him from takin’ you to hell with’m. It’s what lovers do, Dewey. Good thing for you, though, that I’s faster’n lightnin’.”

  Rising to her feet, she holstered her revolver and held out both hands toward Dooley. He had no choice but to accept the offer, and she pulled him to his feet and let her lead him to the side of the wagon.

  A quick glance told him that Zee was right. She had shot him, and Ewing Atkinson was dead, and his attempt to kill Dooley had been the actions of a dead man.

  “How long have you been here?” Dooley asked.

  Zee withdrew a pewter flask from one of her pockets, unscrewed the lid, and held the container under Dooley’s nostrils, like they were smelling salts. The whiskey in the flask smelled worse than smelling salts, but did the job, and Dooley took the flask, brought it to his lips, and took two fast swallows.

  Coughing, he returned the flask to Zee, who chuckled, downed a few swallows herself, and began fastening the lid as she answered his question.

  “Oh, I was in the woods yonder. Waitin’. And watchin’. Right fair fight. Best I’d ever seen with ol’ Ewin’. Figured he’d try to kill you before you reached the big muddy.”

  “He could have killed me in town,” he told her.

  “That was a possibility, but crowds ain’t in—wasn’t in, I mean—Ewin’s nature.”

  “He’s done this before.” It was a statement from Dooley, who felt anger suddenly replacing utter exhaustion and contemptible disgust.

  Zee’s dirty head bobbed. “But you’s the first who’s kilt him.” She shook her head and let out a coyote cackle. “Land sakes, Dooney, you’re somethin’ else.”

  Dooley found his hat, walked through the muddy water, knelt, and probed the shallow but dark depths until he finally located his Colt. It was soaked and caked with mud, useless until it had a good cleaning, and maybe fresh cartridges. The brass might have kept the powder dry, but Dooley wasn’t in a position to take any chances. He dropped the weapon into the driver’s box, turned around, and again knew he needed to lean against the wagon for support.

  “He seemed to think I was wooing you. Seemed to think you belonged to him.”

  She nodded, spit, and wiped her mouth with a sleeve.

  “Done that ’em other times, too. Felt like he owned me, which nobody—not even you, Mr. Manningans—does. Pa’d hire on some new killer, I’d chat with him—friendly, is all—and then next thing you’d know, Ewin’ would be takin’ him to town, guttin’ him like a catfish, and addin’ a scalp lock to his collection.” She batted her eyes. “But all that’s changed now, thanks to you, Doolin.”

  Dooley stepped away from the wagon, and raised his right arm, pointing angrily at the wretched girl in the creek.

  “This was your idea,” he said, his voice rising. “You suggested that Atkinson and I go to fetch supplies. You knew this would happen.” He shook his head. “So did your father. So did every single man in camp.”

  She nodded honestly, and if that was not confirmation enough, said, “Yup.”

  Dooley removed his hat, ran his fingers through his waterlogged hair, shook his head, and swore under his breath.

  “And then you followed us?” he asked.

  “Course. Pa still don’t trust you like he would one of his own. And ol’ Ewin’ wouldn’t have sense enough to find his way to the South Fork of the Elkhorn had he done you in.”

  “You little . . .” He cut off the insult.

  “Remember, love, if I wasn’t here, you’d be lyin’ underneath that locomotive yonder. He might not’ve had enough life left in him to tear offen yer head, but I does believe that his weight—dead weight—would have pushed you underneath the water. It ain’t deep, but his weight would’ve had you drownin’ sure enough.”

  That he could not deny. He started to look again at the dead behemoth, but knew he did not want to. Instead he found the killer’s horse and walked to it, just to keep moving, to keep busy, to keep from letting his mind realize all that had just happened.

  “Good idea, love,” Zee said. “Folks in this part of the country knows to mind his own business, but that shot I fired is like to arouse some curiosity. I’d say we’d best be on our way.”

  Dooley did not answer. He walked the horse to the rear of the wagon and tethered the reins to the gate on the opposite side of General Grant. As Zee walked to the woods to fetch her own mount, Dooley looked down the road toward the capital city, but again saw only an empty street. He stepped around the dead man’s horse, rubbed the skin of the gelding as he eased past General Grant, and stared off toward the Missouri River and the ferry. Nobody was coming. Nobody was going.

  Except Dooley and Zee, who rode out of the woods, splashed across Rhine Creek, and reined to a stop beside the mules.

  “Did you buy me a pretty dress or a nice silk handkerchief whilst you was shoppin’ in Yankton?” she asked.

  “No.” Dooley walked to the front of the wagon, gripped the side, brought his foot to the wheel cap, and started to climb into the seat, but Zee Dobbs chuckled and swung a leg over the saddle horn.

  “Love,” she said, “ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?”

  Dooley lowered his leg into the water. He blinked, shook his head, and asked in an angry voice. “Like what?”

  She p
ointed past the wagon at the dead man lying facedown in the creek. “Why, Ewin’ Atkinson, of course.”

  Dooley stepped back, turned, and looked at the corpse, and again moved his head.

  “Bring . . . him?”

  “Well,” Zee said with a little laugh. “Not all the way to the South Fork of the Elkhorn. But my bullet didn’t tear off all of his head, so he’s still identifiable, most likely.”

  “You want me to turn him in?” Dooley couldn’t believe it. “For a bounty?”

  “He’s wanted, dead or alive,” she said. “Three hundred dollars, last I heard.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “No.” Her voice and expression turned serious. “It’s policy. That’s all. Them boys ol’ Ewin’ killed. They got turned in, too. Didn’t fetch more than a hundred and twenty-five between ’em, but it’s what Pa always tells us. Outlawin’ is a hard way to make a livin’, and you got to take money when and where it comes.” She swung off the saddle and splashed through the creek toward the dead man.

  “C’mon,” she said. “Like as not, you’ll need a hand loadin’ that big oaf into the back of the wagon.”

  * * *

  Among the supplies purchased in the general store in Yankton had been a stout rope, some harness, and a winch. That helped them get the dead body into the wagon, where he was wrapped in four saddle blankets and laid over the crates of ammunition. The tarp was lowered, and Dooley found himself in the driver’s seat and Zee on the back of her horse.

  “Let’s make for that ferry,” Zee said. “I love ridin’ in a ferry. It’s so romantic.”

  “Shouldn’t we take Atkinson to the law in Yankton?” Dooley asked. “For that reward?”

  “Shucks, no, love.” She wheeled the horse around, rode up to the side of the Studebaker, and said in a whisper—although still nobody had dared to set foot on the road from the ferry or from the territorial capital. “Don’t you think the law might suspicion why you’d be bringin’ in the body of a wanted man that was shoppin’ for groceries and gunpowder with you just an hour or two afore?”