Monahan's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  “He’s no bother, ma’am,” Dooley assured her.

  “Just asking him about his dog, Ma,” Madison told the woman. She was a young woman, and quite pretty, though not on the scale of beauty as Miss Sabrina Granby.

  Dooley started to rise, but the boy’s mother said, “Oh, please, Mr. Monahan, don’t stand on my account. Come along, Madison.”

  She led the boy away, who whined, “If I had a dog, Ma, I’d have brung him up to play with me. I wasn’t pestering him none.”

  For a moment, Dooley wondered if maybe he could head down to the Julesburg Livery and bring Blue up to play with the boy, even though Dooley did not think the dog had ever played with any boys since he had found that dog all those years ago in Arizona.

  Maybe he would have, but by then, three of the men in black pants, coats, and hats had brought out their musical instruments, and everyone was gathering in that circle in the center of camp again. The Reverend Granby had walked over to Dooley and said, “Come along, Mr. Monahan. Join us in our dance.”

  “You all dance?” Dooley asked.

  The minister chuckled. “We’re not Baptists, sir.”

  They danced, all right, and the men on the banjo, fiddle, and harmonica sounded better than plenty of musicians Dooley had found on the frontier. Miss Sabrina even stood up with them to sing, and her voice reminded Dooley of angels. “Onward, Christian Soldiers” and “Dear Old Skibbereen.” No one danced to the first song, of course, but they waltzed to that old Irish ballad. Miss Sabrina Granby did not sound Irish, though. She just sounded beautiful.

  When she had finished, everyone applauded, and the fiddler broke into “Put Your Little Foot,” and most of the men found a woman, and even some of the boys found girls, and, Dooley’s mouth hung open, as Miss Sabrina Granby came up to him, extended her hands, and said, “Isn’t this our dance, Mr. Monahan?”

  He liked the dance, since it was mostly a waltz but sometimes a mazurka and a bit of a polka. Not that Dooley had ever been much of a dancer, but he never once stepped on the beautiful woman’s toes. He even felt . . . dare he say . . . graceful?

  Alas, the song ended too soon, and the banjo player said he needed time to tune, and the harmonica player said he needed to wet his windpipe. Dooley had hoped he might stay out on that prairie dancing with Miss Sabrina Granby until some low-down snake tapped him on the shoulder and asked to cut in.

  He walked her to her wagon.

  “Are you having a nice time?” Miss Sabrina asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t ma’am me, please, sir. You make me feel old.”

  “All right. You don’t have to call me sir, either, Miss Sabrina.”

  They had reached the Conestoga. She turned and looked him right in the eye. “Why don’t you forget the miss, too, Mr. Monahan. My name is Sabrina.”

  Dooley wet his lips. He looked over his shoulder, but the reverend was talking to one of the penguins.

  “Sabrina,” he said.

  “That’s better.” Her eyes twinkled.

  He pushed his luck.

  “My name’s Dooley. Mr. Monahan was my pa.”

  His luck held. His heart beat faster. “Dooley,” she said. “That’s such a nice name.”

  His throat turned dry. No one had ever told him that he had a nice name. Usually, men said, What kind of name is Dooley? Or, Who in his right mind would name his kid Dooley?

  “Well,” she said.

  Darkness had covered northeastern Colorado Territory by that time, but the fires were going all across the camp, and Dooley could see the reflection of the flames in her eyes. He could have stared at her eyes forever, and maybe he would have, if the voice behind him had not said:

  “Mr. Monahan, mayhap we can have a word with you. A word of the utmost import.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  For a while, after Dooley had been led away from Miss Sabrina Granby and her beautiful eyes and those freckles he really wanted to kiss, Dooley thought the important discussion had to do with Mrs. Abercrombie’s apple pie. They gave him a slice, and a glass of goat’s milk to wash it down.

  “What do you think?” asked one of the penguins as Dooley chewed.

  “Criminy, Fred, let the fella at least swallow.”

  “Nobody makes better apple pie than Beatrice,” another penguin stated.

  “Because of her crust. It’s her crust that seals it.”

  “Crumbly top. With cinnamon.”

  “Never tasted anything better.”

  Dooley had to nod. It was pretty good pie. Made with apples from a can, but that had to be expected because it was too early for any fresh apples and Dooley did not think they had brought any apples they had stored in a cellar back from wherever it was that they hailed from before landing in Julesburg, Colorado Territory.

  “It’s good,” Dooley said, and realized he probably should say a little more because at least a dozen penguins were staring at him with beady penguin eyes.

  “Best I’ve ever had.”

  The twelve pairs of eyes widened.

  “I told you.”

  “Beatrice is a blessing.”

  “Because of the crust.”

  “And the cinnamon.”

  “And how she makes that top so crumbly and delicious.”

  “You like the goat’s milk, Mr. Monahan.”

  He nodded. That didn’t need any more explanation. They let Dooley finish his pie and milk in peace while they polished off the rest of Beatrice Abercrombie’s apple pie.

  “Well,” the Reverend Granby said. “How about a nightcap, Dooley?”

  As Dooley turned, he saw the leader of the penguins had produced a brown earthen jug, which he unstoppered, rested the bottom in the crook of his arm, and lifted the opening to his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed a few times, and then the preacher lowered the jug and wiped his mouth with the back of his other black sleeve.

  The jug was extended to Dooley, who quickly set down his plate and empty glass and took the heavy container.

  “You drink?” he asked the preacher.

  That got chuckles from all of the penguins.

  “Certainly, Dooley,” the minister said. “Like I told you earlier, we’re not Baptists.”

  “We’re Episcopalians,” said the penguin with the bushy eyebrows. That had to be Mr. Abercrombie, because he was collecting the empty pie tin.

  “I see.” Dooley saw. He took a sip of whiskey, and it was certainly whiskey, but not rotgut. It had that taste and smell of Scotch, which Dooley had never been particularly fond of, but Scotch would do in a pinch, and as night had come full on and brought with the darkness a certain chill, the Scotch—if indeed Episcopalians drank Scotch and not Episcopal whiskey—warmed his mouth, throat, stomach, and settled over his entire body.

  Mr. Hentig—Dooley was getting to tell the penguins apart, at least some of them—cleared his throat, and Dooley passed the jug to him. He watched the jug make its rounds in the circle of men in black, and nodded at the questions and answered a few of those that required more than nods, and thought that he really should get down to the livery, pay the livery man, saddle General Grant, and load up Blue, and start out for Denver or Cheyenne or maybe even turn south, because Doc Watson and Frank Handley probably would not expect him to go that way on account of the Cheyenne Indians who might be looking to lift any white man’s hair.

  It was too dark now, though, to ride anywhere. He would have to wait for the moon to rise.

  “Did you train that dog of yours to fight?”

  “He’s a real fighter, isn’t he?”

  “But he would be gentle around our children, wouldn’t he?”

  “That’s a Colt Peacemaker on your hip, isn’t it?”

  “What caliber?”

  “And is that the only weapon you own?”

  “We’re not prying, just new to these Western ways. Did they carry six-shooters on their hips in Des Moines?”

  “Beatrice made another pie. Not apple, but peach. Canned p
eaches. Would you care for a slice of peach pie, Dooley?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, the children will appreciate that, Dooley. Mrs. Abercrombie made the pie for them, you see.”

  “But the whiskey is all ours.”

  “And it’s back around to you, Dooley.”

  The reverend smiled as he handed Dooley the jug.

  He took only a small sip this time, barely enough to wet his lips and tongue, and let the jug make its way across the circle once more. This time, when it reached the Reverend Granby, the minister returned the stopper and set the jug back inside the Conestoga.

  “It’s getting late,” one of the penguins said.

  Another penguin yawned.

  Silence. The fires were dying down, but Dooley could see the women in pretty dresses and bonnets leading their children away from the remnants of Mrs. Abercrombie’s peach pie and to their own bedrolls underneath various wagons of all shapes and sizes.

  The younger women, including Miss Sabrina Granby, began gathering the dirty dishes and taking them to a thick, black pot from which steam wafted in the night air. Dishwashing time. Dooley thought about volunteering to help, but Mr. Hentig said abruptly, “Ask him, Bob.”

  “We need to get a-moving,” said Mr. Jones, or perhaps it might have been Mr. Franco.

  “Or we ain’t never gonna get to—”

  “Shut up, Mark,” Mr. Abercrombie barked.

  All of the penguins became silent. And all of them looked straight at Dooley Monahan.

  “Dooley,” the preacher said after a long, awkward pause, “remember I said I had something of importance to bring to your attention?”

  The apple pie and goat’s milk began fighting each other in Dooley’s bowels. He wished he was helping Miss Sabrina Granby wash dishes, and Dooley hated to wash dishes.

  Still, he managed to nod his head.

  “Then let us find a spot by the fire yonder and have our private conversation.” He accented the word private, and Mr. Jones and Mr. Abercrombie and Mr. Franco and all the other penguins waddled off to their own wagons and families, except for Mr. Hentig, who had announced that he would check on the goats and oxen before finding his bedroll.

  * * *

  The fire yonder that the Reverend Granby had suggested turned out to be the one at the south-easternmost point in camp. The preacher squatted at the northwestern spot, where all the smoke was drifting toward, and gestured at the other side for Dooley.

  Dooley sat and watched as the preacher stoked the fire with a stick and then fed it with pieces of dead sagebrush. From his spot, however, Dooley saw he had a real fine view of Miss Sabrina Granby as she washed dishes with Madison’s mother while one of the old silver-haired women watched, spit snuff, and dried with her apron. Then she passed the plate to one of the other older girls who would take the plate or pot or cup or utensil to the proper wagon. Like a military operation.

  Mostly, though, Dooley just watched Miss Sabrina.

  “Dooley,” the preacher said, and, reluctantly, Dooley looked at Miss Sabrina’s uncle. “Let me tell you a story.”

  And he did. This one:

  * * *

  Long ago, the Episcopalian penguins had left Massachusetts and brought the Widow Kingsbury’s sourdough starter and their families from Peabody, which before 1868 had been called the South Parish and before that Brooksby and before that The Farms and before that Northfields and before that part of Salem and before that nothing unless the Indians called it something. They left Peabody, Massachusetts, and came to Ohio.

  Oh, Cincinnati was a wonderful town, with the Ohio River and the Miami and Erie canals and streetcars. You would not believe the streetcars. Why, those horse-drawn conveyances could take a person anywhere he wanted to go. If he wanted to take a steamboat somewhere, the streetcars could take him right up to the river. If he wanted to board a train, he would be driven to the depot. If he wanted to visit a friend in one of the hill communities, he could board a railcar and go there, too.

  “You did know Cincinnati is surrounded by hills, did you not, Dooley?”

  Dooley shook his head. He knew nothing about Cincinnati other than it was in Ohio and had streetcars, but was quickly told that the best city in Ohio or anywhere along the Ohio River was also known as “The City of Seven Hills,” even though there were many, many more hills than seven. Mount Adams . . . Mount Harrison . . . the Walnut Hills . . . Fairmont . . . College Hill . . . Vine Street Hill . . .

  Rome may have been built on seven hills, but Cincinnati outshone Rome by far.

  “The Cincinnati Inclined Plane Company can take you all the way to top of Mount Auburn,” the Reverend Granby said.

  “Wow,” Dooley said just to please the uncle of Miss Sabrina Granby.

  Life must have been grand in Cincinnati. Residents could fish or buy fish, they could drink, they could read assorted newspapers, they could go to any church that they desired to worship in—even Mormons, provided they stayed out of the good parts of the city—and if they wanted to watch a baseball game, why, Cincinnati had the best ballists money could buy.

  Dooley knew nothing about baseball or ballists.

  “And . . .” The Reverend raised his index finger. “Surely you have heard about the Tyler Davidson Fountain.”

  “No, sir,” Dooley whispered. “Tell me.”

  It was the “Genius of Water,” the symbol of that glorious city, located in the center of Fifth Street among all the coffeehouses and stores and hotels and restaurants and finest businesses you’ll find anywhere in Ohio and definitely better than anything Pennsylvania has to offer.

  Forty-three feet tall, in bronze, inscribed on its base of green granite, To the People of Cincinnati, it has brought tourists from all over, even Chillicothe.

  It certainly sounded important, but Dooley quickly grew tired of Cincinnati, and after two suppers—one that included a big, thick, juicy steak—and several beers and some Monongahela rye whiskey from Pennsylvania and finally some Scotch or Episcopalian whiskey and apple pie, but no peach pie, and goat’s milk, Dooley Monahan was growing mighty tired. He wanted to sleep, but he certainly did not want to sleep in Julesburg. He needed to be riding. Riding west. Or south. Or anywhere but toward Scottsbluff, Nebraska—and definitely not Ogallala.

  The preacher kept talking. For a man who gave mighty short funerals, really short, considering how the funeral had been for five men, the Reverend Robert James Granby could be long-winded when it came to waxing poetic about Peabody, Massachusetts, and Cincinnati, Ohio.

  Dooley focused on Miss Sabrina, but all too soon the dishes were finished, and Miss Sabrina was walking toward the Conestoga. Dooley sighed. She climbed into the back of the wagon, and there was nothing left to look at except right across the fire now, at Miss Sabrina’s uncle.

  Certainly, by now, the parson had finished talking about where these Episcopalians had hailed from. Dooley looked at the man in black, waiting for him to tell him how much money they needed or what kind of investment was needed to restore the Genius of Water, that wonderful, irreplaceable Tyler Davidson Fountain, and Dooley could hand him the golden eagle still in his pocket and get the hell out of Julesburg.

  “Our travels were hard,” the reverend lamented. “Wickedness took two of our great people in St. Louis. Disease claimed four in Kansas. One turned back in Hays City. And we buried poor Rolfes on Frenchman Creek. Our guide got us this far, but then he fell in with bad company.”

  Dooley waited, but the man did not speak.

  “Bad company?” Dooley asked.

  The preacher nodded. “His name was Jefferson Chatfield.”

  The name meant nothing to Dooley, but the description the preacher gave made it all come back to Dooley.

  Mexican sombrero. Rode a palomino mare. Had one arm, his left, and hand pretty much chewed down to the bone, and a bullet that must have killed the man instantly, seeing how it hit him right in the heart.

  One of the bunch that had robbed the Julesburg Store, k
illed poor Budd Totter, and tried to murder Dooley Monahan for his horse and the late Hubert Dobbs’s horse on the road from Ogallala, Nebraska.

  “Oh,” Dooley said.

  “My niece was betrothed to him.”

  “Oh.” He felt like throwing up.

  “But I’m glad we buried the son of a bitch.”

  “Me, too,” Dooley whispered.

  “We need you to finish Jefferson Chatfield’s job,” the preacher said. “We need you to take us to Slim Pickings.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Reverend Robert James Granby reached inside his black coat and withdrew two long cigars, thick and tightly wrapped and probably better than any cigar Dooley had ever seen. He held them out for Dooley, who accepted one, and busied himself biting off an end while the preacher did the same. When the preacher lifted a twig out of the fire, Dooley leaned forward to let the minister light his smoke. It tasted slightly of cherry, which made Dooley wonder if Mrs. Abercrombie could make a cherry pie. He preferred cherry pie over apple and even peach and about the only pies he ever ate at a bunkhouse were vinegar pies which were not much to write home about.

  When their cigars were glowing red, and the savory smoke was filling their mouths, Dooley and the preacher studied each other across the small fire.

  Dooley removed his cigar, blew out smoke, and asked, “Slim Pickings?”

  The reverend nodded.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Dooley said.

  “And we’d like to keep it that way.”

  He never knew men of the cloth could be so secretive.

  “But how can I guide you there if I don’t know where it is?”

  “We have a map.”

  Dooley took another pull on the cigar. You had to suck real hard on the cigar, but it was worth the effort. He looked at the minister, at the wagons, and looked over his shoulder to the few lanterns or candles still glowing in Julesburg. Dooley’s head shook as he turned around and told the minister, “Couldn’t you follow that map to Slim Pickings yourselves?”