The Trail West

by William W. Johnstone

  Tommy Hawk’s face smoothed out into its former, more kindly state at just about the same moment Monahan got the joke of the boy’s name. Trying not to laugh, Monahan peeked into his wallet, saw green, and again asked, “How much?”

  “Two bits a day for each one. And we won’t count last night. We’ll just agree that you fellas rode in early this morning, all right? And we feed alfalfa hay, full-grain corn, and oat bran mash.”

  Monahan nodded. General Grant was going to think he’d died and gone to horse heaven! “Sounds just grand, Tommy.” He slid a worn dollar bill from his wallet, loosening something else in the process. “Here’s for today and tomorrow,” he muttered as he held the money out to Tommy with one hand and thumbed free the scrap of paper from his wallet with the other.

  He recognized it almost immediately. “Alaska,” he whispered almost reverently.

  “What’d you say?”

  He looked up. “Oh. Alaska! That’s where I’m goin’.”

  “Why’d anybody wanna go up there?” Tommy said, his face flooded with disbelief. “I hear the whole place is froze over practically the whole dang time!”

  “No, it ain’t. Says so right here.”

  Monahan held the clipping up, then farther away until it came into focus. “Says the climate is salubrious.”

  The boy’s brow furrowed. “What’s that mean?”

  “Means it don’t snow all the time,” Monahan said, a bit more gruffly than he intended. He quickly stuffed the clipping back inside his wallet.

  “Didn’t mean no offense.” Tommy was obviously concerned about the board money. He knew travelers passing through town could just as easily leave their mounts tied to the rail . . . and usually did. He needed the business.

  “None taken,” Monahan replied. Thank God he’d found the clipping! Hell, he might have wandered around the southwest for years without remembering where the heck he had set out for in the first place. “Did I pay you?”

  Tommy dug his toe in the dirt for a second before he said, “Yes sir, two day’s worth.” The money was clenched tightly behind his back, and they both knew it.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to get to it.” Monahan smiled a little, thinking he’d best go roust that Julia gal out of bed or it’d be time for lunch!

  He had no sooner said his piece and turned about when he spied a man across the street.

  The man gulped at the sight of the old cowboy, but held his ground. “Monahan!” he cried, and his feet did a little jig that was completely out of character with his expression.

  To Monahan’s thinking nothing about the fellow matched up, including the giggle that made its way out of his mouth directly after Monahan’s name.

  Monahan cocked his brow. “What?” he hollered back.

  Across the street, the artless grin faded just a little. “I says, is you Dooley Monahan?”

  Where was the damned dog when you needed him? Monahan thought, without allowing himself a look-round. “Who’s askin’?”

  The stranger pulled himself up a little taller. “Alf Baylor, and you gunned down my brother over cards.” His fingers began to twitch.

  Without taking his eyes from the stranger’s, Monahan hissed, “Get inside and lay low, Tommy.” Behind him, he heard scrambling boots, then the hollow boom and dull click as the door closed and the latch dropped.

  Monahan had failed to notice the hotel’s front entrance, a simple thing at best, where the door briefly opened just a crack, then closed. On the other side of the door stood Julia, suddenly wide-eyed and shaking with terror.

  The desk clerk sat forward and lowered his newspaper, the two front legs of his chair hitting the wood plank floor with a smart tap. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Julia didn’t dillydally. “The men I came in with yesterday. The younger one—Sweeney, he’s called. He come down yet?”

  “Been here since seven, and I ain’t seen him.” He leaned back dismissively and pulled up his paper again.

  Julia fairly vaulted up the stairs and down the hall.

  Monahan had done his best to delay the inevitable. But Alf, who he was quickly learning wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, seemed to be tiring of it.

  “Now, you listen here, Monahan—”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for your brother?” Monahan interrupted, not giving him a chance to finish. He couldn’t recall the name, but knew there was one.

  Annoyed, Alf snapped, “He’ll get here when he comes! Now, let’s get on with it!” Alf went for his gun, forcing the old cowboy into action.

  The Colt slid easily from its holster, felt right in Monahan’s hand. He fired at the very instant Alf did. And they both missed.

  Rage overtook Alf’s features and he shouted, “You hold still, you liver-spotted ol’ hop toad!” He fired again, and duly missed.

  Before Alf had a chance to accuse him of dodging and weaving again, Monahan opened fire, fanning his gun for all he was worth—which wasn’t much, to his thinking. Every single bullet missed, although he put a hole through the post Alf was standing beside and blew out a little stained glass windowpane on his right. He sighed, thinking he might as well let Alf kill him because he could never afford to replace it, when Alf drew his attention again.

  He sneered and called out, “You outta lead, Monahan?”

  “I am that,” he reluctantly replied. “Don’t suppose you’d mind if I took a walk over to my saddlebags for bullets?”

  Unbelievably, Alf seemed to consider it for a moment, but then shook his head. “Nope, Monahan. You already had your shots, used ’em all up.” Slowly, he lifted his arm and leveled his pistol at Monahan. “You’re a dead man.”

  12

  Monahan stared at Alf. Nothing else registered. Everything had faded into the background until the very last second when it came out of nowhere like a blurry, gray cannonball, colliding with Alf’s gun hand as the percussive explosion split the morning air.

  Monahan hit the ground, scrambling quickly toward his saddlebags and the half-full box of ammunition he knew was there. But his old legs didn’t carry him as fast as he wanted, no matter how strongly he willed them to. Another shot rang out and apparently hit General Grant, for out in the center of the paddock, the gelding immediately started bucking.

  “Damn you, Alf Baylor!” Monahan shouted as he dug into his saddlebag and—miracle of miracles!—his fingers landed directly on the cartridge box. Without further thought, he wheeled around, dropped into a squat, loaded the pistol, and took careful aim at Alf Baylor.

  But Alf had dropped his gun and was staring down stupidly at his wrist, which he cradled before him. Blood dripped down and spattered on the boards at his feet. “Not fair!” Alf shouted at Monahan.

  “What you talkin’ ’bout, fool?”

  “Not fair, you sendin’ some fancy trick dog out here to bite me! Near to took my hand off, he did!” Alf turned his attention back to his wounded wrist and began to sniffle.

  Confused, Monahan frowned. Some fancy trick dog? Could he be talking about—

  “Blue?” Butch Sweeney stepped out of the mouth of an alley down the way. His rifle was out and pointed square at Alf Baylor’s head. He called, “You shot up, Dooley?”

  “Nope,” Monahan answered, silently thanking God his opponent was as bad a marksman as he was. Before he could form a word to ask Sweeney where the hell Alf’s brother was, he had a face full of wagging, wriggling, whimpering and licking Blue dog.

  As he tried to pry fifty pounds of happy-beyond-measure dog off, he heard new voices. Hopefully some of the locals had seen it was Alf who’d started the ruckus.

  Once he finally got the dog peeled off him and climbed back up to his feet, he saw that the sheriff had taken Alf into custody. He was cuffed, anyway. One of the men who’d been in the posse the other day—a deputy, Monahan was pretty sure—had taken possession of Alf’s gun and was marching the shooter toward the jailhouse. The sheriff turned toward the little crowd that had gathered. He was trying to calm th
em down, Monahan thought, although he couldn’t hear anything over the crowd’s hum. He continued watching as Sweeney reached the mob across the street and had words with the sheriff. They didn’t exactly look friendly.

  Monahan snorted and gave his head a little shake. “Blue, let’s you and me go see to General Grant.”

  The dog barked out a soft acknowledgement and shimmied under the fence rail.

  Monahan chuckled. “Damned if I don’t half think you understand every word that’s said inside your earshot, you ol’ fur ball.”

  Blue woofed happily, and Monahan turned his back on the crowd across the way, swung himself over the fence, and walked toward General Grant. “How you doin’, big feller? Did that nasty ol’ Alf hit you with a lucky shot? Pretty certain he didn’t do much more ’n surprise you, ol’ son.”

  He reached the horse, gave his forehead a good rub and then, with Blue standing out front and giving the General ‘the eye,’ Monahan went over the horse, inch by inch.

  Up the street, Dev Baylor stood in an alley’s shadows, angrily and rhythmically clenching and unclenching his fists as he watched his brother being marched into the jail across the road. The damn idiot! he thought. Couldn’t even kill the old buzzard from thirty feet away! He’d known for years Alf was a bad shot but he’d rarely had a chance to see him demonstrate the fact so publicly.

  There had been nothing he could do to help him out. Alf had chosen a most public place to gun down Monahan, and there was paper out on both brothers. Dev had been forced to watch from the shadows, and hold his fire even though Monahan would have been a fairly easy shot, standing right out in the open as he’d been.

  Dev ground his teeth. Even I could have picked you off, old man, he thought. Just the way you picked off our big brother. ’Cept he was a whole lot easier target, just sittin’ across the table and mindin’ his own business.

  The whole situation was just plain embarrassing, that’s what it was. Alf had let Monahan take the chance to reload! That was inexcusable, to Dev’s way of thinking. Of course, due to there being a kink in the road, he hadn’t seen that Alf was bleeding until the deputy hauled him off. Just what had happened to bring that much blood was another thing entirely. Be just like ol’ Alf to go and shoot himself, now wouldn’t it? he thought, and growled under his breath.

  But it wasn’t the time to figure that out. It was time to figure a way to break Alf out of jail. Not that the concept had Dev exactly quaking in his boots. It was something he’d done countless times before. And one he would probably be called upon to do many times in the future.

  He looked across the street toward the sheriff’s office again. The place was bubbling with activity. Well, for a little town like Iron Creek. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a ready-made, and lit it. The deputy emerged from the front door and assumed position to stand guard. The rifle was held across his chest, and his face appeared to be practicing a mean and menacing look. He wasn’t very good at the last part.

  Dev snorted out smoke, then moved back a little, but not so far that he couldn’t see the sheriff’s yawning doorway. If he held his head just right, he could make out the shadow falling across Alf’s grimy trouser leg at the back of the building, behind a row of iron bars.

  You never could do anything the easy way, could you, Alf? he thought, his head shaking slightly.

  “Said it weren’t nothin’,” Monahan repeated for the third time, leaning in toward Sweeney. The crowd in the saloon was noisy and all out of proportion for barely past noon on a weekday.

  He hadn’t yet realized it had been his and Alf’s little dog and pony show that had provided an excuse for the townsmen. “Just creased the hair over his croup is all.” He lifted his mug and took another deep drink.

  Sweeney nodded his head, indicating he’d understood, then answered. Monahan couldn’t hear him, but he believed he’d said something like, “Good, good,” so he nodded in reply and took another healthy bite of the sandwich the bartender had provided for them—thin-cut, cold, tender roast beef on thick, homemade sourdough bread still warm from the oven.

  Out of what was quickly becoming habit, he tore off a corner and held it down to the dog. Two chews and a gulp, and then Blue was staring back up again, a fresh, pleading expression on his face.

  “You sure are somethin’ else, dog.” A wave of sentiment rose up to burn at Monahan’s eyes, and it was a good thing Sweeney tapped him on the shoulder just then, or he might have embarrassed himself.

  Sweeney’s mouth moved again, but Monahan still couldn’t hear squat. He pointed to his ear and shook his head. Sweeney tried yelling louder, which had no effect at all, and then pointed toward the door.

  Gravity, I’m givin’ in, Monahan thought, sliding off his barstool. He tossed the last of the sandwich to the dog (much to its delight), grabbed his beer mug, and set off in the direction of Sweeney’s pointing finger. Once outside, he leaned up against a porch post and waited.

  Sweeney appeared shortly, followed by the blue merle dog. “Thanks for comin’ out. Too noisy in there to converse.” He jabbed his thumb back toward the saloon.

  Monahan nodded. He lifted his beer a final time, drained it, and leaned back with the empty mug dangling from a thumb.

  “What I was gonna tell you is that I’m goin’ back to the hotel,” Sweeney started in. “If you’re right about Dev bein’ around, I wanna make myself a hard target.”

  “As in tough to find?” Monahan twisted to the side, looking down toward the livery. Tommy had taken the horses inside. Good.

  “Exactly.” Sweeney turned his thumb back to point at himself. “If he’s gonna kill us, I’m gonna make this target one he has to work for.”

  Monahan couldn’t think of any argument to counter his theory, and told him so. Then he asked, “That lawman say anythin’ about a reward?”

  Sweeney nodded. “Said he’d talk about it once he got time to interview you. I guess that means he wants to ask you some questions.” He sniffed and turned his head away, as if he was guarding himself from being overheard. “Busy little son of a gun, ain’t he?”

  “That he is.” Monahan nodded. “Y’know, I’d swear there was somethin’ I was achin’ to tell you, ’cept I’ll be damned if I can remember what it is.”

  Sweeny shrugged.

  “Was it about the little gal, maybe?” Monahan tried.

  “Julia? Nope. Don’t think so. By the way—and I hate like sin to be givin’ her credit for it—she was the one what sent Blue chargin’ up the street after that gunman.”

  Monahan furrowed his brow. “How the hell did she do that? I mean, she ain’t known that dog more ’n a couple o’ days!”

  Sweeney shrugged his shoulders. “Reckon it was long enough. She just got down on one knee and whispered somethin’ to him, then pointed up the street to him, and bang! That hound was off and runnin’.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Monahan muttered. Blue was still at their feet, sniffing at the boards in case he’d dropped any sandwich on the way out. Hell, Julia had probably whispered that Alf had a sandwich he wasn’t sharing!

  The dog gave up, and thumped down onto the boards with a low moan, reminding Monahan of the last shot Alf had gotten off. He looked up. “Hey, Butch, you check him over? I mean, Alf didn’t get off a lucky shot, did he? Don’t want nobody shootin’ my dog full o’ holes.”

  Sweeney smiled. “He’s fine. Ain’t got a scratch on him.”

  “You certain?”

  “Go over him yourself. Ain’t no skin off my nose. You checked Chili when you were ’cross the street, right?”

  Monahan hadn’t, but he said, “Looked fine,” then added Sweeney’s own, “Go over him yourself,” and swung an arm toward the stable. There was no way Alf could have been lucky enough to wing both horses! he thought.

  Was there?

  Oh, now he was being a silly old man!

  Before he had a chance to dig himself a hole any deeper, he said, “Believe I’ll take in my mug, then go back to the hotel
.” He stood erect and held the mug out in front of him. “Mind?” he added when Sweeney didn’t move fast enough to suit him.

  “Sorry,” Sweeney muttered, and stepped to the side.

  Monahan swung in one side of the batwing doors, sat his mug on a chair rail, then turned and made his way on down to the hotel with Blue happily trailing at his heels.

  Not being in any hurry, he did a bit of window-shopping on the way. Once he climbed up the stairs, fully expecting to find that Sweeney had beat him back and was snoring blissfully on the other bed, he and Blue found themselves alone. Blue didn’t mind. He took possession of Sweeney’s bed, dug himself a nest in the rumpled bedclothes, and settled in for the duration.

  “He’s gonna show up any second,” Monahan warned as he pulled off his boots, then lay back on his own berth. All he heard out of the dog was a deep sigh. And then he didn’t hear anything, because he was asleep.

  Monahan dreamed deep, falling back, back in time, back to days long, long ago when he was young and so was the country.

  He was sitting beside a campfire, and the night was damp, not crack-your-hide dry, like Arizona. It was a Missouri night, a Missouri night in the open. It was summer, but the evening hadn’t brought much cool with it. There wasn’t even a breeze to trick a body into thinking it had cooled off.

  He looked across the fire and saw the picket line, with his old gelding Tony tied to it and drowsing. On some level, he knew he was in his past, but it felt like . . . like right now. Somewhere deeper in the shadows, another horse stamped his hoof and snorted softly.

  To his right, a voice asked, “You gonna argue me on this one, too, Dooley?”

  The young man turned toward the voice, recognizing the speaker immediately. “You’re Vince George, aren’t you.”

  Vince gave him one of those looks, as if he’d gone crazy, but before either of them could say another word, Red Usher appeared, dropping into a sit next to Vince and catty-corner from Dooley around the fire. He looked angry and mean.