Monahan's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  The newcomer is described as dressing like a common saddle tramp—probably to deceive citizens from knowing the true, cold-blooded nature of his character—of medium build, slightly above average height, no noticeable scars, and fairly dull in personality. Yet he happens to be mounted on a strong, fast, and impressive bay gelding, and is accompanied by a splendid blue dog.

  $750 REWARD

  DEAD OR ALIVE.

  There was more, but that seemed enough for Dooley’s stomach to twist and turn and his throat to run drier than a South Texas creek in the middle of a four-year drought. Dobbs chuckled, and Dooley looked up.

  “But I didn’t kill that sheriff,” Dooley told him. “Y’all did.”

  He also remembered that Sheriff Noble James Brazile IV, before he was cut down by a hail of lead, wasn’t exactly so “beloved” and certainly not “devoted to upholding the law and good order of our fine state.” He had planned on lynching Dooley and taking the money from the Dutch Bluff bank for himself.

  “Read that little type underneath that big seven hunnert and fifty dollars,” Dobbs instructed.

  Dooley read.

  The posse, consisting of some of Omaha’s finest citizens that discovered the butchered body of the great Sheriff Brazile, reports that near our gallant hero’s corpse were prints left by cowboy boots, plenty of horses, and not only dog tracks but dog dung, thus revealing the true identity of Sheriff Brazile’s murderer.

  POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION REQUESTED

  Money Guaranteed

  Body May Be Turned In to Any Duly Elected Sheriff in Nebraska or Surrounding States or Territories

  Preston M. Garland, President,

  Second State Bank of Omaha (Neb.)

  “None of the boys ridin’ with me never brung me more’n four, five hunnert bucks tops,” Dobbs said. “Well, I reckon Frank’s head’s worth twenty-five hunnert now, and Doc’d bring in seventeen seventy-five, but they’s like family. You’re a good hand, Dummie, but well, this is policy, like I’ve always said. I figure seven hunnert and fifty bucks will get us to Cheyenne and Deadwood in high style. Hope you understand.”

  Dooley’s mind kept racing, but every plan that came to him would seemingly end with his body leaking from a dozen buckshot holes in his middle. But one idea might just work.

  “You’ll do me the favor of taking care of Blue and General Grant, won’t you, Mr. Dobbs?”

  The killer chuckled. “Oh, I sure hope the sheriff in Julesburg lets me keep that horse. You got mighty fine taste in horseflesh, son. But I figure to kill the dog. Less trouble. And his carcass would kinda seal the deal, don’t you think? I mean, his body, yourn, and your horse . . . that would be . . . what did that poster say? . . . ‘Positive identification requested’?”

  “No, Blue!” Dooley shouted, and pointed at the dog.

  Dobbs merely smiled. “I ain’t no dummy, Dumpy.” He started to bring the shotgun up to his shoulder, and Dooley moved his finger from pointing at Blue to pointing at Hubert Dobbs.

  Which was all Blue—and Dooley—needed.

  He heard the growl, of course, but Dobbs hesitated—which is the first thing outlaws were supposed to be taught never, ever, to do—uncertain if he should shoot Dooley first or swing the barrels to kill the dog. Eventually, he decided that the shepherd posed the worse threat, and he began to turn. That moment of choosing took only a second, but that was all it took.

  Both barrels of the shotgun roared, spraying the sage and the Colt that Dooley had shucked a few minutes before with buckshot, as Blue’s teeth tore into Hubert Dobbs’s forearm. The shotgun, now empty, toppled into the ground as the weight of the big shepherd brought the big killer down. He crashed with a thud, shouted, cursed, and brought his other hand up to grab for Blue’s throat. Blue released his hold on the bloody arm and bit off Dobbs’s thumb on his other hand.

  The outlaw gang leader’s curses grew stronger.

  Dooley ran to help Blue, but the outlaw and dog rolled over, the outlaw now on top of the shoulder, and Dooley tripped over them, bouncing over brush that shredded the left sleeve of his shirt.

  “Arrghhh!”

  Dobbs fought to protect his neck. Blue was typically a mild-mannered dog, but the killer had brought out plenty of aggression in him. Dooley came up, feeling a lot of anger in his own body, and went back to the melee. Dobbs was using his left forearm, letting the dog rip the sleeves and hair and flesh with his fangs, while his right hand lowered. Dooley feared the man was bringing up a knife to gut the dog.

  He kicked Dobbs in the head.

  The blow turned the man over and sent Blue flying off into the sage. It also caused Dooley to lose his balance, and he fell straight back on his hindquarters. Breath shot out of his lungs, but he had no time to be dazed or out of breath. He came up quickly and saw Dobbs, his left arm hanging loose at his side, useless except for irrigating the Nebraska sage with blood, but his right now going for, not the knife, but the six-shooter in his holster.

  Dooley could have sworn that he had kicked Dobbs right in the temple. It should have killed the murdering fiend, or at the very least, knocked him out cold. The gun came up, but Blue dived again, biting, growling, his white fangs vicious, and snapped at the killer’s hand.

  The pistol fell, and Dobbs had to spin to his side.

  Dooley was diving for Dobbs’s revolver, but when Dooley came up with the big weapon, he saw that Dobbs had picked up Dooley’s Colt.

  “Confound it!” Dobbs bellowed.

  The buckshot from Dobbs’s shotgun had riddled the pistol—Dooley didn’t know exactly how badly, but Dobbs could not get the piece to cock. Dooley was having trouble himself with Dobbs’s six-shooter, for the cylinder was now caked with a gritty, cementlike mixture of Nebraska sand and Hubert Dobbs’s blood.

  Dobbs hurled Dooley’s pistol, and Dooley cut loose with Dobbs’s.

  The big man ducked as Dooley’s throw missed just to the right, while Dooley felt his mangled Colt slam straight into his chest. He fell backward, blinked out the pain, heard Blue barking, Dobbs cursing, then the dog yelping. His hair singed, and Dooley felt the heat and that awful stink of burning hair. He knew he must have fallen right next to the fire he had been building to cook supper. It could have been worse. He could have landed in the fire, on that heavy iron grate.

  Swatting at his burning hair, Dooley tried to get to his feet.

  He knew Dobbs had kicked his dog, but he saw the dog limping around, cutting a wide path around the killer. Stunned. But still game. Still alive, at least.

  Dobbs had brought out his knife. He spit out blood, laughed, and charged.

  There was no time to think. Dooley had no weapon.

  Dobbs was running, and again Dooley remembered that saying that a buffalo, despite its size, ran fast when it had to.

  Dooley reached. His hand burned. He ignored the searing in his palm. He let the coffeepot sail.

  The pot missed the charging man-killer and landed on some sage. The scalding water and not-quite-ready coffee did not miss, however, but soaked and steamed and scarred Hubert Dobbs’s battered face. He screamed and fell to his knees, dropping the knife, and reaching with both hands at his miserable face.

  Blue barked, started to charge, but stopped, uncertain. Was Dobbs out of it?

  Dooley didn’t know himself, but he figured he needed to find a weapon. As in . . . immediately.

  He turned, tried to lift the grate, but buffalo dung and sage burned really hot. His skin sizzled, and he cursed, let go. Tears broke free. Blue barked, growled, and helped again.

  “Get away from me, you damned cur!” Dobbs shouted.

  Dooley looked back, saw the big man, again on his feet, staggering toward Dooley. He had been battered, half blinded, ripped to shreds, and practically beaten by a dog and a cowboy. Yet Hubert Dobbs had been an outlaw for many, many years, and he was far from finished.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” Dobbs yelled. “I’m gonna kill you and your dog and your horse, Dooley Monahan, you swine!
”

  He had gotten Dooley’s name right. And he also held his pistol, which he had managed to cock. He brought the big revolver up, and aimed it at Dooley.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  With just a few yards separating him from Hubert Dobbs, Dooley knew that there was little chance a killer like Dobbs would miss from that range, and he couldn’t pray that the gun might misfire. Instinctively—that primal fear of death—caused him to reach for whatever was closest, something to protect himself, something that was not a clump of sage. His right hand found something—Dooley didn’t know what—and he brought it up, before the deafening report of Dobbs’s pistol caused Dooley to flinch.

  Something whined, and Dooley felt hard metal slam into his chest, knocking him back onto the sage. He landed with a grunt, pain jarring his chest and sending spasms up his legs and all the way to his neck. Yet Dooley knew that he had not been hit by a bullet, and felt no new blood leaking from his body.

  No time to think, to relax, to realize he wasn’t dead . . . yet.

  Dooley reached up, grabbed the iron handle of the skillet that lay on his chest, slid it to the ground, and sat up instantly. With all his strength, he brought up the frying pan, intending to throw it at Hubert Dobbs. A cast-iron pan like this, which strained Dooley’s arm muscles, was no .44 but could be lethal in the right hands.

  It was.

  Dooley blinked, lowered the skillet to his side, and sucked in a painful breath of air.

  Hubert Dobbs lay faceup, spread-eagle in the sage and sand. Blue danced around his unmoving body, barking, yipping, and growling. Dooley could see that the outlaw still grasped the revolver in his right hand and that his eyes kept blinking.

  As Blue kept barking and the killer just lay there, Dooley glanced at the skillet. It had been blackened by so much use over the years, yet he saw a gray or silver spot in the lower end of the pan, near the handle. Dooley shook his head and put the skillet on the ground. His finger touched the dent, felt the traces of lead, and he brought himself to his knees, understanding what had happened.

  “Blue.” His voice sounded raw, but it had gotten the shepherd’s attention. “Sit. Stay.” Blue turned quickly toward Dooley, growled as he faced the blinking, breathing Dobbs, and began backing away a few feet before lowering himself to the ground. He didn’t exactly obey Dooley’s commands, but that was close enough. The good dog refused to take his eyes off Dobbs, though, and kept up that low growl, hackles on his neck stiffer than Dooley’s tightening muscles.

  Cautiously, Dooley walked over to Dobbs.

  The killer stopped blinking, and his eyes found Dooley.

  “Help . . . me . . .” the outlaw pleaded. Just those two words tormented Dobbs, and blood frothed his lower lip. Every time the man’s chest moved up or down, a terrible sucking sound escaped from the hole in the right side of his chest.

  Dooley could sort out what had happened, but he couldn’t understand why it had happened. By all accounts, Dooley Monahan should be the one lying dead beside the fire. Yet when Dobbs had pulled the trigger, the heavy bullet had slammed into the cast-iron frying pan that Dooley had just brought up for protection. A couple of inches lower, and Dooley would have been gut-shot. A couple of inches higher, and the leaden slug might have still hit the skillet, but the ricochet would likely have missed Hubert Dobbs completely, allowing the murdering thug another chance at shooting down Dooley Monahan.

  Dooley wanted to look at the sky. Maybe he would find an angel flying overhead, smiling down on him. Perhaps he would see God himself, and his hair would turn white, and he would grow a beard like Moses. But Dooley knew better than to take his eyes off Hubert Dobbs, who still held that pistol, no longer cocked, in his right hand but didn’t seem to be aware of it. Dooley refused to look at the gun, lest he remind the killer that he could still do what he set out to do, and kill Dooley Monahan.

  Actually, that was only part of what Dobbs had planned, but from the amount of blood on the killer’s shirt, and on his lips and cheek and chin, and considering how awful that hole snorted and sang with the outlaw’s every breath, Dooley knew that Dobbs wouldn’t be able to collect any reward in Julesburg. If he lived another five minutes, it would be the second miracle of the evening that Dooley had witnessed.

  He knelt beside the badman.

  “Dooley,” Dobbs managed. “You’ve . . . kilt . . . me . . .”

  Dooley had to work his mouth and wet his lips before he could speak. “Well, you killed yourself, I think.”

  The man laughed, but that proved painful, and he almost doubled over, and then soiled his britches.

  Dobbs recovered, opened his eyes again, and muttered an oath.

  “Yes, sir,” Dooley said. “That’s what you just did.”

  “A gypsy . . .” Dobbs began, spitting out saliva and bloody sputum. “She said . . . cards said . . . I’d die . . . at my . . . own . . . hand.” He coughed slightly. “Never figured . . . me to . . . blow my own head off . . . hang myself... some other . . . suicide.” His face tightened in pain for the longest while, and Dooley thought those might have been the last words of Hubert Dobbs. A moment of stillness passed, and Dobbs recovered.

  “I tol’ her . . . she was . . . crazy. Shot ’er dead. Taken . . . her rings . . . and silk . . . kerchiefs.” He managed to shake his head slowly, and now blood leaked from both nostrils. “Reckon . . . the bitch . . . was . . . right.”

  Another lengthy quietness.

  Then.

  “After . . . all.”

  Dooley tightened his lips. The killer’s cold eyes locked on Dooley, waiting for some response, but Dooley decided he had nothing to say to this despicable waste of a man. It wasn’t the way the circuit-riding preacher back in Iowa said folks should think, but Dooley just wished that Hubert Dobbs would hurry up and die.

  “Doo . . . mey . . .” Dobbs said, and coughed again. “Lean closer . . . I . . . gots . . . somethin’ . . . to . . . tell . . . ya.”

  Dooley thought about denying the killer’s request, but couldn’t quite do that. He told himself it would be the right thing to do, that, well, Hubert Dobbs had saved him from a lynching on the Platte River. And Hubert Dobbs would be dead soon enough. He leaned down toward the man’s bloody mouth.

  And felt the barrel of the six-shooter pressing against his temple.

  “Kill me . . .” Somehow, Dobbs had summoned up enough hatred, enough energy to hold that .44 against Dooley’s head. “I . . . can . . . take you . . . with . . . me . . .”

  A few yards away, Blue growled and began barking, and Dooley wished that he had not ordered the shepherd to stay, that his dog would not obey Dooley’s command for the first time ever. But no luck. Was that angel or God himself laughing at Dooley right now?

  Dooley waited, before he realized that Dobbs wasn’t pulling the trigger. Slowly, he lifted his left hand until he gripped the gun’s barrel, and even more carefully, he pushed the barrel away from his own head.

  “Damn me all to Hades’ hottest fires,” Dobbs managed to sing out. He coughed again and dropped the big revolver on his bloody chest.

  “Doo . . .” The sucking sound grew even louder. “Do . . . me . . . a kind-ness.” Dooley waited. “Cock . . . my . . . pistol. Ain’t . . . got . . . strength . . . no . . . more.”

  Dooley didn’t think he’d be able to get that .44 to fire again, at least no time soon, and he wasn’t about to help Hubert Dobbs.

  He waited. The revolver remained on the killer’s chest, and Dobbs’s hand and arm fell off, onto the blood-soaked ground.

  Birds chirped in the distance, and the sun began turning into a beautiful orange ball as it slipped toward the western horizon.

  “Boy.” Again, Dobbs had summoned strength. “Ain’t you . . . got . . . nothin’ to . . . tells me . . . afore . . . I’m . . . dead?”

  Dooley looked the killer in his deadly eyes.

  “Go to hell,” Dooley said.

  Only Hubert Dobbs was already there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


  Dooley’s first thoughts were to mount General Grant, pull Blue up into the saddle with him, and raise dust for anywhere that wasn’t Nebraska. Yet the sun was sinking, and Dooley didn’t want to run into any party of Sioux or Cheyenne or even Pawnee or tenderfeet. He kept telling himself that Hubert Dobbs could not harm him anymore, and that he had a nice fire already going. That reminded him to add some sage and dried dung to the fire.

  After that, he just worked to stay busy, to take his mind off the pain, his wounds, all that had happened to him over the past weeks, and the fact that he had a dead man lying in his camp.

  After checking the pickets, he decided to hobble Dobbs’s horse, but left General Grant saddled, just in case he needed to ride fast and hard in the middle of the night. He tied Dobbs’s hands together, and his feet, with some pigging string. Not that he knew exactly why he needed to do the precaution, but it certainly made him feel better. He thought about fingering the corpse’s eyes closed, but couldn’t do it. He did wrap the dead body in a woolen blanket, and then proceeded to police his camp.

  His Colt was ruined, and although he managed to wipe the grime and sand from Dobbs’s revolver, Dooley didn’t trust it to fire, so he dropped both pistols in one of Dobbs’s saddlebags, where he discovered another weapon.

  It was a Colt, too, although with a shorter barrel and the sight filed down, nickel plated and ivory grips. Too fancy for a cowboy like Dooley, but he thumbed a cartridge out of his shell belt, opened the Colt’s chamber gate, pulled the hammer to half cock, and rotated the cylinder. His shell fit perfectly, and Dooley laughed at his good fortune. He filled the six-shooter with four more cartridges, keeping the chamber under the hammer empty. The pistol slipped easily into Dooley’s holster.