Monahan's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

“Reward?” Dooley studied the coin, picked it up, bit it, assured that it was indeed a real double eagle. “For what?”

  “That’s the reward Mr. Posnanski offered after those killers you killed robbed his store.”

  Dooley put the coin beside his empty plate. “But they only took seventeen dollars and thirteen cents.”

  “Thirteen dollars and seventeen cents,” Marshal Maximilian corrected. “It’s policy, is all. Besides, they also murdered poor old Budd Potter.”

  “Totter,” Dooley corrected.

  “P or T, nobody’ll remember him next month. Hell, I’d already forgotten the handle he was using. So it’s policy. A man gets killed who works for you and your store gets robbed, you post a reward.”

  Which, if Dooley could do his ciphering correctly, meant that the owner of the Julesburg Store thought Budd Totter’s life was worth six dollars and seventy-or eighty-odd cents.

  “And,” Marshal Maximilian added, “someone kills your partner, or your gang’s boss, or your daddy, and, well, you come after the person who done the plugging.”

  “The way it struck me,” Dooley said, “being with the gang for a while . . . neither Frank Handley nor Doc Watson cared one whit for Hubert Dobbs. And I’m not altogether certain Dobbs’s daughter would lift a finger to save, or avenge, him.”

  “Like ain’t got a danged thing to do with it, son,” the marshal said. “It’s principle, like I’ve already said. A man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. Principle, you see.”

  He pointed at the double eagle. “Best take that, Dooley, and raise dust.”

  Dooley put the gold coin in his pocket. “You’re asking me to get out of town.”

  “I’m not exactly asking, Dooley.”

  “I’d planned to go anyway, Marshal. Thanks.”

  “When you go, son.” Maximilian stayed in his chair as Dooley rose. “Try for Denver, maybe. Cheyenne. Or south, though the Cheyenne will likely lift your hair. Just stay away from Scottsbluff. That’s where I’m bound.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  The old man laughed heartily. “Son, I sure ain’t planning on being here when Frank Handley and his boys ride in. They’ll burn this town and everyone in it looking for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Marshal Maximilian was right, the way Dooley saw things. Handley, Doc Watson, Zee Dobbs, and the rest of the gang would ride after Dooley, if not for revenge then for all the money that Dobbs had been carrying that the gang figured needed to be divvied up among the surviving outlaws. Even before Dooley had arrived, he had never considered staying long in Julesburg anyway. Now that he had seen Julesburg, he knew nothing could keep him here.

  He still had two days. Two days before the killers came looking for him. Even at a hard pace, he knew he couldn’t make it to Cheyenne in two days, but he probably would be able to get there well ahead of the ruffians chasing him. But that would likely mean waiting for one of the U.P. trains. If the westbound arrived in Julesburg on Monday . . . ? Dooley swore underneath his breath. Hopeless.

  On the other hand, Denver held some promise. A hundred and eighty, two hundred miles? Five days of hard riding, six or seven to keep General Grant—and Dooley himself—fresh. Besides, Denver had a mint. In Denver he could cash in that voucher.

  “But I’ve never ran away from anything,” he said aloud. He opened the door, stepped delicately onto the boardwalk, and laughed at the absurdity of his statement. The door closed. “You’ve run from your responsibilities,” he reminded himself. “From Ma and Pa. From the Baylors. From Des Moines. From Monty’s Raiders. And you wanted to run from Dobbs, from Ewing Atkinson.”

  He stepped off the boardwalk, looked back toward the railroad tracks. Yeah, Marshal Maximilian had not been lying. No telegraph wire could be seen against the darkening sky. Darkening sky. Dusk was fast approaching. He had been in Julesburg for maybe two or three hours. He could put a few more miles between him and the Dobbs-Handley Gang now if he saddled up and rode away.

  “Yes,” he told himself, and turned back to head toward the livery. He stepped right on the blonde’s brogans, heard her scream, and he fell right on top of her on Julesburg’s dusty lone street.

  She smelled of lilacs. Lilacs and . . . he couldn’t help but sniff. Her hair held the aroma of yucca, but Dooley hadn’t seen anything but sage in this part of the country. And her hands, which had reached up to grip his shoulders, reminded him of vegetable soup. He thought he had eaten enough vegetable soup back on his farm in Des Moines, thought he never wanted to get a whiff of that odor again, but now . . . well . . .

  “I’m sorry.” Dooley rolled off her as fast as he would a rank bronco that had just pitched him in a bucking corral. He came to his knees, gasping, terrified, and held out his hands. “I . . . didn’t . . . see you.”

  She blinked. He knew she was not one of Sheila’s girls, and, from the looks of her, had to belong to that wagon train parked on the north side of town. He thought he might have crushed some of her bones, but she sat up, eyes still wide with terror, and turned to face him.

  “Are you . . .” Dooley even had trouble speaking. “All right?”

  Her mouth opened. It was a pretty mouth, white teeth—most teeth a man saw in this country were yellow, sometimes brown, even black, and often quite a few missing. As far as Dooley could see, she had all of hers, and there was this splendid little gap between the two big ones up front in her upper gums.

  She raised a hand and brushed away a lock of blond bang that had fallen from underneath the red bonnet. Red. Most of the women Dooley had seen appeared to be wearing blue bonnets, a few gray, one yellow. Hers was not only red, but red and white polka-dot calico—just like Dooley’s bandanna.

  “Ma’am . . .” Dooley looked at her, then up and down the boardwalk, but no one had appeared from any of Julesburg’s businesses. The store was even closed.

  She laughed. Dooley sank back onto his buttocks. Maybe she had lost all her reason. Had she struck her head on something hard? She bent over, she laughed so hard.

  “Ma’am?” Dooley tried to figure out how did you help a person who had just gone loco.

  “Ohhhhh,” she said, and her voice sounded so musical. At length, she stopped, wiped the tears rolling down her cheeks, sniffed, and looked at Dooley as her chest heaved up and down.

  Dooley held his breath. He waited. She stared at him with those wonderful blue eyes. Freckles coated her nose. Her dress was buttoned close and tight against her neck.

  “Ohhhhhh,” she said again, and started laughing again.

  Dooley stared off toward the wagon train and raised his hat, hoping to get someone’s attention. He didn’t think Julesburg had any doctor. At least, he had seen no sign saying JULESBURG DOCTOR anywhere in the town limits.

  “That . . .” At last the woman had said something else. She caught her breath. “Can you believe that?” she asked, and began her insane laugh again.

  Dooley put his hat back on his head. She stopped again, looked at him, and this time when she began howling like a crazy woman, Dooley accompanied her.

  When they finally finished, Dooley rose to his feet and held out his hand. She accepted, and let him pull her to her feet.

  “You sure you’re all right, ma’am?” Dooley asked.

  “Yes.” Now her voice turned formal. “I am, kind sir.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “Well.”

  “Well.” She grinned.

  He swept his hat off his head again. “Sorry, ma’am. My name’s Monahan. Dooley Monahan.”

  He stiffened. If she said something like, The Dooley Monahan who killed the Baylor boys, he would just turn to dust and blow away.

  Only she did not say, The Dooley Monahan who killed the Baylor boys. She said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dooley Monahan.” She held out her right hand. “I am Sabrina Granby.”

  His hand dwarfed hers, and he feared his calluses would scar her permanently, but s
he had a firm grip, a sturdy shake, and when she lowered her hand to her side, she did not attempt to wipe off the dirt on her apron or in the folds of her dress.

  “Ummmm.” Dooley didn’t know what to say.

  “I am bound for the funeral,” Miss Sabrina Granby told him.

  He squinted. “Oh,” he said, and turned around to look at Julesburg’s sprawling cemetery. The deputy and the two other Julesburg citizens had gotten the graves six feet deep, or deep enough for the likes of Hubert Dobbs and four poor-shooting store robbers and clerk killers. The tenderfoot who had offered to do the preaching stood under the lone cottonwood that grew away from the South Platte River, holding his black hat by his black trousers in his left hand and his big black Bible in his right hand.

  “Would you care to accompany me?” she asked, and crooked her arm as a signal.

  Dooley sighed. “I reckon I should see them planted,” he said, and thought, but did not add, seeing how I killed all five of them.

  He ran his arm through the opening between her arm and waist, and led Miss Sabrina Granby down the dusty Julesburg street and turned left into the cemetery that had no gate. He let Miss Sabrina Granby go stand beside the tall, gangly man in black, and Dooley again removed his hat and got ready for the funeral.

  The deputy marshal matched coins with the blacksmith from the livery and the former owner of the Julesburg Saloon No. 2 to see who would stay behind to cover the graves after the funeral. The smithy lost, so the deputy and the other townsman walked off, leaving a crowd of two, not counting the preacher, to pay their final respects—though it wasn’t actual respect—to Hubert Dobbs and four men whose names would not be recorded.

  Since it was growing dark, the parson kept the funeral fairly short. He quoted from the Beatitudes and quoted from some other Bible books that Dooley couldn’t quite put his finger on, said “Ashes to ashes,” and led Miss Sabrina Granby in “Shall We Gather at the River.” Dooley just mouthed the words that he remembered and those words that he did not remember.

  After that, the preacher bowed his head and prayed:

  “Merciful Father, hear our prayers and comfort us. Renew our trust in your Son, whom you raised from the dead. Strengthen our faith that all who have died in the love of Christ will share in his resurrection, who lives and reigns with you now and forever. Amen.”

  Dooley knew the amen part.

  “And thank you, God, for bringing this stranger, this good man, this intelligent man, into our midst. We are not worthy, Lord, but you in your infinite wisdom, must truly love us to bring this good man to us.”

  Dooley wanted to look around to see who the preacher was talking about, but didn’t dare lift his head until the preacher said again, “Amen.”

  Miss Sabrina Granby said “amen,” as well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  As soon as the preacher put on his black hat and took two steps toward Dooley Monahan and Sabrina Granby, the burly blacksmith began covering the blanket-wrapped corpses with Colorado sod.

  “Did you know the deceased men, sir?” the preacher asked in a solemn voice.

  “Not well,” Dooley answered with a certain measure of discomfort.

  “I saw you bring their bodies in,” the preacher said. “You are a lawman?”

  “Well . . . not . . . um . . . exactly.”

  “But I must guess that you have experience in . . . such . . . ahem . . . delicate matters of . . . how should I put this?” He looked at the darkening sky for guidance. “Surviving in this rough, lawless land,” he said as if given the words through divine intervention.

  Dooley said solemnly, “Well, I’m alive.” He thought: For the time being.

  “I am Robert James Granby the third,” the reverend said, and held out his right hand.

  Dooley shook, and introduced himself. The parson’s hand was cold like a cadaver’s, but firm, and for a tenderfoot, he sure knew how to keep a handshake short and to the point.

  “You’re Miss Sabrina’s . . .” Dooley started but did not finish.

  “Uncle,” Miss Sabrina Granby filled in.

  “And, you, Mr. Dooley Monahan, will do us the honor of dining with us in camp tonight, sir,” the preacher said.

  Dooley grimaced. “Well . . .” he started, but the parson was already walking away, and Miss Sabrina Granby had taken his arm in escort.

  “Nonsense, sir,” the preacher said. “I insist.”

  A tall man, the Reverend Robert James Granby III moved at a fast gait and did not give Dooley any time to tell him that he had already eaten, and not just eaten but had a steak and mashed potatoes and corn bread and fried onions. Dooley watched Miss Sabrina Granby’s dress bounce and sashay and decided that a full stomach would not hurt him and he could still make good time if he left at seven or eight o’clock, that the moon would be bright enough, and even if he left at first light, he would still be able to put a lot of trail dust between him and the late Hubert Dobbs’s bunch back in Ogallala. Besides, who was he to argue with a man of God?

  * * *

  The good news was that they were serving soup and sourdough bread for supper, and the soup was not vegetable after all but something fairly tasty and creamy, and the women who had been in charge of the bread had seasoned it with sage and cheese, and that tasted just absolutely wonderful.

  Before eating, they gathered in a circle, reached out, and held their neighbors’ hands, bowed their heads, and had a nice little prayer, led by, naturally, Miss Sabrina Granby’s uncle. After that, they formed a line, women and children first, and collected their grub.

  “Just a little soup and a small slice of bread, please, ma’am,” Dooley told the gray-haired woman in charge of parceling out the eats. She didn’t listen. Nor did the silver-haired woman who wore no bonnet but still had her hair up in a big bun. She was in charge of the coffee or tea, and when Dooley told her he’d just have some water, she slid to him a mug of thick brew that had been doctored with goat’s milk—Dooley could hear the goats picketed over by the oxen—and sweetened with honey.

  It turned out to be the best coffee Dooley had ever had.

  Dooley stood off in the center of the camp, trying to figure out where he should go with his food and drink.

  “Over here, Mr. Monahan!” the Reverend Mr. Granby said, and waved him to an old Conestoga wagon. Dooley made himself smile and walked to the preacher. He had hoped to have been made to join Miss Sabrina Granby, but he saw her over with a bunch of other young women in bonnets. Miss Sabrina did, however, smile at him and wave her hand.

  At the Conestoga, Dooley found himself introduced by other men in black pants, black coats, and black hats—Mr. Franco, Mr. Jones, Mr. McCreery, Mr. Hentig, and some other misters, although Dooley could not put a face to a name five minutes after the introductions.

  Penguins. That’s what he thought. Six years back, when he had been working a line shack on the north forty of the Circle 79 Ranch in Idaho, all he had had to read for three lonely months was a copy of Harper’s Weekly. He did not remember much about the article written about the great continent of Antarctica and a desperate try at reaching the South Pole, but he did remember those illustrations of the birds with wings that could not fly but could swim like a shark and eat more fish than a Baptist. Black-and-white birds. That’s what all of these men reminded him of. Penguins.

  The men asked Dooley the usual questions. Where he came from. How did he like the soup? How long had he been in the West? The Widow Kingsbury sure knew how to make bread, didn’t she? What was his line of work? Did he know that the sourdough starter the Widow Kingsbury used had been in the Renick family—that was the Widow’s maiden name—since they had arrived in Massachusetts in 1697? What was the weather like in Iowa? Was Des Moines anywhere near St. Louis? How did his crops fare last year? What did he think of Julesburg? How did he manage to kill four men in a gunfight and not take even one bullet? Was Hubert Dobbs as evil as the Commercial Gazette of Cincinnati said he was?

  “Ain’t you got a d
og?”

  Dooley put the last piece of sourdough bread, which he had used to wipe up the last of the soup that was more chowder and sure hit the spot after steak and rye whiskey, in his mouth. Before him stood a freckle-faced boy wearing a hat that Dooley thought had been made for a girl.

  After he swallowed, Dooley wiped his mouth and fingertips with the ends of his bandanna and picked up the coffee cup to wash down his supper. He kept nodding, though, so the tyke would not think Dooley rude.

  “Yes, boy, I got a dog,” Dooley told him.

  “I thought so. Seen it. Don’t tell my ma. I wasn’t supposed to be looking.”

  Dooley’s head just kept bobbing.

  “Where’s that dog?”

  Dooley smiled. One of the penguins—maybe it was Mr. McCreery but it could have been any of those who was not the Reverend Granby—called out from the wagon tongue where he was sitting, “Madison, don’t you be bothering Mr. Monahan any!”

  “He’s no bother, sir,” Dooley said, and told the boy, “My dog’s in the livery.”

  “Liveries is for horses and mules,” Madison said.

  “Yes. My dog’s keeping my horse company.”

  “Oh. You didn’t want to bring him here.”

  “I didn’t know Blue was invited.”

  That made the boy’s eyes light up. “Blue? Is that what you call your dog?”

  “That’s what I call him. His coat looks blue. His eyes are blue.”

  “The hell you say!”

  Dooley shot a quick glance toward the wagon tongue and over by the neighboring wagon, which wasn’t a Conestoga but a heavy farm wagon. None of the men in black had heard the boy’s curse.

  “A blue-eyed dog. You ain’t fooling me?”

  “No.” Dooley laughed. “His eyes are blue. Bluer than yours even.”

  “On account mine’s gray.”

  Dooley drank some more coffee.

  “If I had a dog, I’d have brung him here. So I’d have a dog to play with.”

  “Well,” Dooley said, “had I known . . .”

  A woman in a red calico dress with a muslin apron and a yellow bonnet appeared. “Madison,” she said, but her voice did not appear to be scolding, even when she took the boy’s hand and pulled him to her side. “You should not be bothering our guest, son.”