The Trail West

by William W. Johnstone

  Real friendly, Dooley said, “Hey, Red.”

  “Real funny,” came the reply. Red’s face doubled up on the ‘mean.’

  For the first time, Dooley knew it was aimed at him and him alone. Sent a cold shiver right through him, it did.

  Vince spoke again. “Well, Dooley? What’s it gonna be?”

  He didn’t have the slightest idea what to say, and shortly, he had no chance. The only thing in the world he could see was the enormity of Vince’s knuckles as they rapidly grew in their race toward his face.

  For a while, things got murky. Somebody was hitting him, and every punch hurt like the devil. He heard the hollow sound of slapping leathers as his body was slung across Ol’ Tony’s saddle and headed out into the night.

  He was hit again and again and again until his brain sloshed inside his skull, sloshed like a lone boiled egg in a big pickling jar. And then he opened his eyes just a crack. Sunlight near to blinded him. He passed out, convinced he was surely dying, traveling down the River Styx.

  But he woke again—later in the day, or maybe the next, or the next. The light wasn’t so bright. The ferryman bent over him touched his face, and changed into a woman—a beautiful woman. He began to weep. He recognized her as the woman he would one day marry, and he was happy. His horse was grazing nearby, he was shed of Monty’s Raiders for good, and Kathleen would—

  Monahan sat up in the bed, wide awake and straight and stiff as a frozen snake, blinking rapidly.

  13

  Julia sat in the alley behind the hotel, arms wrapped around her legs and face buried in her knees, thinking what to do next. Once she’d seen the sheriff coming down the walk, Alf wailing and holding his hand, and the dog springing up into Monahan’s arms, she’d turned and scampered back into the alley behind the buildings. There was no way she’d let her uncle catch her unawares.

  If the peckerwood was even in town.

  And he wasn’t even her uncle!

  He’d taken her in when she was nine, her parents having gone to the Lord when the fever came through their corner of Texas. At first, she’d thought he was wonderful. He’d gotten her a horse of her very own, and taught her how to take care of it. She’d already known how to cook the few things he was interested in eating, and past that, he didn’t much care what she did. Although she missed her parents greatly, she was grateful to him.

  At first.

  Homes with room and vittles for a child not their own were hard to come by, and she knew she was lucky he’d taken an interest in her. She was too young and too sheltered to think it odd that he’d passed over several boys in sore need of a parental figure and chosen her, a poor, plain, little child hiding under a considerable mop of red hair.

  She was no good at anything that came in handy for him on the trail, and barely good for company. She was afraid to talk much when she was younger. Afraid of most everything, come to think of it. In fact, she was terrified of most everything the world had to offer, with the single, glowing exception of him.

  After they’d settled in Iron Creek and she had started school and begun to make friends, God thrust the weight of the world on her. She was terrified when her first menses came. Miss Kellogg, the teacher, found her huddled and shivering in the back corner of the little schoolhouse’s storage closet, and it had taken Julia a world of courage to tell even her, who had been nothing but kind. But Julia had managed to tell her, falteringly, about the unthinkable thing she had discovered in the outhouse.

  Miss Kellogg let out a tiny, subdued laugh and hugged her shoulders tight. “It’s nothing you did, Julia. Most girls look on it as a wonderful thing, a blessing. It’s a signal from God that you are a woman.”

  Julia decided she didn’t like God’s messaging system and later on, she told him so in her prayers. By that time, Miss Kellogg had explained the whole business to her, told her how to “fix herself up,” and sent her on her way. Julia had also promised herself never to mention it to her uncle, who, she decided, wasn’t privy to such information, being a man and all, and never having been married.

  But late that night, he came into her room. “Julia? Julia, are you awake?”

  She sat up in the darkness. “I am,” she said groggily.

  He cleared his throat as if gathering himself. “I, uh, talked to your Miss Kellogg this afternoon. She tells me . . . she says things are gonna be different for you from now on.”

  “Yes, sir,” she had replied, glad for the darkness when she felt a hot flush rise up her neck.

  “Shoulda known. Well, did know. I smelled it on you during dinner.”

  Softly, she whispered, “Sorry if you found it offensive.” Then she offered a lame excuse. “I washed.” Silently, she began to cry.

  Thankfully, he left, but before he did, he paused in the doorway and made her promise to tell him when it was over.

  She remembered agreeing, at the same time thinking how very strange it was that he’d want to know about such a personal thing.

  Five days later, she found out.

  Monahan had fallen back to sleep by the time Sweeney entered the hotel room. He had taken the time to have himself another sandwich and a tall beer, and was feeling unusually full. He sat down in the upholstered chair between the table and the window and stuck his long legs out into the room.

  He looked over at Monahan. He sure was something!

  “Is he your pa?” some of the townsmen had asked. Others had wanted to know if they were brothers or nephew and uncle. Sweeney knew it was only because they were both so tall and thin, and they traveled together, and that it seemed more important to a man to be able to say he took a drink with Dooley Monahan’s son—Dooley having just put on the street show outside the hotel—than that he’d had a beer with Dooley Monahan’s . . . what? He guessed he’d like to be remembered just as the man’s friend than as anything else.

  Sweeney lifted a foot and gave a playful nudge to the mattress. “C’mon, Blue,” he whispered. “Get your fluffy old feathered backside outta my bed, or I’ll lay down right on you.”

  The dog did no more than offer a low, rattling groan and allow himself a momentary shivery, shaky stretch of his limbs before falling back to sleep.

  “Fine,” Sweeney muttered. “I guess you’re the mattress, then.”

  The dog made no reply.

  Scraping himself up into a proper sit, Sweeney stood up. He pulled back the covers as well as he could, with Blue hogging them, and sat down on the bed. “God,” he muttered to no one in particular as he lay back. If he was careful, he could lay down one side of the bed without disturbing the dog. That was a good thing, he reckoned. The dog had taken a true liking to Monahan. He’d best remember to keep his knobby knees and big feet to himself.

  He lifted his hat, verified he had, indeed, taken off his spurs, then lowered it over his face like Dooley did when he was sleeping out on the trail before he allowed himself a deep sigh, and fell into a deep, if somewhat guarded, sleep.

  By suppertime, Dev Baylor had given up guarding the jail, which remained congested with curiosity seekers and lawmen alike, and abandoned his alley for a perch at the Iron Creek Café, where he was digging his fork and knife into a thick, freshly-butchered steak. Well, according to the waiter. It couldn’t have been proved by Dev, although considering all that had gone on in town, he wouldn’t have put it past them to butcher every edible critter in outright, decadent celebration.

  To tell the truth, he was more than a little jealous. To think that Alf’s capture was the call for all the jubilation! It made his teeth hurt, that was what. If Alf had been handy, he would have backhanded him, just for trying to make himself look bigger. And don’t forget failing to kill Monahan. That was the most stupid thing of all!

  He sawed at his steak and poked another bloody bite into his mouth. It seemed he was chewing a lot more than normal, and he couldn’t for the life of him find the salt. Salt would help. But he looked and looked and there was no—

  A hand clasped his upper arm.
>
  He twisted toward it.

  “You be a stranger in these parts?” said the man who still had a hold on his shirtsleeve.

  Once Dev’s eyes followed the hand to the arm to the shoulder of the man, he made himself smile. “You shouldn’t go ’round like that, grabbin’ fellers out of the blue, Sheriff,” he said, all teeth and charm. “And yeah, I rode into your fair city this afternoon.” He was careful to make his time of entry fall after Alf’s little “altercation” with Monahan. He leaned toward Sheriff Carmichael and propped an elbow on the table. He swept a hand toward the jostling, noisy crowd. “What the devil’s got into these folks, or is Iron Creek just a naturally happy town?”

  The sheriff let go of his arm. “You ever heard of the Baylor Boys?”

  Dev introduced himself as Richard Blessing, a traveling wool merchant on his way to California to close a few new deals. He allowed that he’d never known anyone by that name. The sheriff filled him in on the recent doings in town. By which he was properly amazed, of course. So properly that before the sheriff moved on to quiz a lone man at a table in the back, he shook Dev’s hand and welcomed him to town.

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” he said with a smile. “Glad to be here.”

  “Pleasure’s mine,” the sheriff replied.

  For now, Dev was thinking. But later tonight, the pleasure will be all mine. After all, even the sheriff has to go home sometime, doesn’t he?

  Noontime had come and gone, and naptime along with it. Sweeney had risen on account of the dog’s teeth being abruptly buried in his knee, and Monahan on account of Sweeney’s yelps of pain.

  “I don’t know why you got to go provokin’ that dog,” Monahan said from beneath his hat.

  “I ain’t provokin’ him!” whined Sweeney. “He bit me, not the other way ‘round!” He separated the dog from his knee and yanked his pant leg up above the insult. It was bleeding, all right, but it might have been bleeding more or less, depending on your point of view. To Sweeney’s mind, it would have been better if it hadn’t bled and Blue hadn’t broken his skin, so less. But if it was going to bleed at all, it should have been bleeding more... At least he would have looked more wounded if it had gushed a little!

  But it didn’t. It just kept slowly oozing. And hurting to beat the band.

  “Real funny, Blue,” he said, shooting the dog a sidelong glance. Blue just kept on with his lazy pant and Sweeney slowly shook his head with a muttered, “Real funny.”

  Monahan left Sweeney behind, nursing his knee, and tromped down the stairs with the dog. “You know, you’d better not bite him up too bad. He’s your friend, too! Y’know, I been thinkin’ ’bout Miss Julia. Who was it sent you after that Baylor, anyhow? Was it her?”

  The blue dog didn’t answer.

  They hit the main floor, and after giving a nod to the desk clerk, Monahan turned toward the back hall, pausing only to holler, “Which room?”

  The clerk answered him right off, and Monahan went on down the hall to her room. He rapped on the door.

  She answered it right off, but her eyes were tear-stained. Once she’d seen who it was, she turned her face away from him.

  “You eat yet?”

  She shook her head, but kept it turned away.

  “Well, let’s you and me go see if they have anything edible up to the café.”

  Nodding stiffly, she followed him from the room.

  They were outside the front door before she broke down—out of the blue, it seemed to Monahan—and had to sit on the steps with her face in her hands. Blue, whimpering softly, gently nosed at the tears seeping through her fingers.

  Monahan rubbed his neck, then sat down beside her, shaking his head. “All right, Miss Julia. You’d best be tellin’ me what’s botherin’ you.”

  She did. It wasn’t anything he wanted to hear—or even think about, for that matter—but once she opened up, getting her to stop was like trying to close the floodgates. She didn’t want to go back home, and he could well see why. The fact was he’d like to get his hands around that uncle’s neck for about five minutes, that was what.

  Well, maybe not, especially when Julia described him as a big fellow—a mountain of a man—muscled up like a bull and twice as mean. Monahan wasn’t young anymore, and doubted he’d survive an encounter. But Julia wasn’t staying, not with a man like that. Hell, he had a hard time even thinking of him as a man!

  He couldn’t tell Sweeney. The cowboy was young enough to think he could take on the uncle. Well, maybe he could, but it wouldn’t be easy.

  Monahan didn’t want the boy to end up running for the rest of his life, as he had. He was determined there wouldn’t be another Dooley Monahan created that day!

  “This ‘uncle’ of yours, whereabouts does he live? I mean, how likely is he to be in town?”

  “He only lives about a mile up the creek,” she replied between sniffs and snuffles. “I’m sorry. I never told anybody before.”

  His arm went around her and hugged her shoulders tight, which brought on a fresh onslaught of tears. “There, there,” he soothed. As he rocked her, it occurred to him he might have been a good daddy, had he stayed put long enough to sink down stable roots, and had he taken up with a good woman.

  He had, of course. He had taken up with Kathleen.

  But he didn’t remember that very often. He did remember having had a dream that made him nervous, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.

  “We’d best not go paradin’ you out in the street, then. What do you say you go back to your room, and I’ll bring you a sandwich?”

  Julia looked up through damp lashes. “And what about tomorrow?”

  “We’ll figure that out when we get there. But don’t you fret none, we ain’t gonna leave you nowhere near that nasty old skunk, not for peaches nor pearls.” It was something he’d heard his mother say a thousand times, although he couldn’t recall any more of it, just the saying. Repeating it made him feel warm inside.

  “Now, go on back inside. Don’t worry. I’ll see to you.” Monahan stood up, taking her with him. He watched her go back inside, and then he turned and trudged on up to the café, where he ordered a roast beef sandwich for himself, and another for her. He also bought two orders of home fries—one for him and one to go—and two slices of apple pie, only one wrapped up with a fork on top.

  After checking to see that the horses were settled in all right, he took the food to her. As he watched her eat, he wondered if he shouldn’t have brought her two sandwiches instead of just the one. She was halfway through it before he had the presence of mind to tell her about the potatoes. She wolfed them down before he thought to tell her about the fork wrapped up with the pie.

  When he left her, she was stuffed and happy, nearly purring like a baby kitten. He paused at the door to say, “Reckon Butch or I’ll stop by with some dinner for you around seven. Think you can hold out till then?”

  Smiling, she nodded. “Mr. Monahan? They used to have some real good rhubarb pie at the café. If you wouldn’t mind, could you—”

  “Sure,” he said with a grin. “If they got any, it’s yours. And Mr. Monahan was my daddy. You call me Dooley.” Softly, he closed the door between them.

  By the time he reached the lobby, Sweeny was limping down the stairs. He raised a hand. “You goin’ to Sheriff Carmichael’s office, Dooley?”

  “Why? Is he lookin’ for me?”

  Butch stepped down to the lobby floor. “Seems to me he was lookin’ for you. I mean, you were involved in the arrest of Alf Baylor this mornin’. Or have I got the wrong Dooley Monahan?” He cocked his brow.

  “Why you askin’? You found you got some time to kill?”

  “Thought I might walk up there with you, iffen you don’t mind. I’d like to have a look at this killer who’s been doggin’ us all over the territory.”

  Monahan walked toward the door. “No skin off my hide.”

  Sweeney scurried to catch up, which he did only after following the old cowboy’
s spur-jangling steps halfway to the café.

  14

  By the time suppertime rolled around, Monahan and Sweeney had been at Carmichael’s mercy for several hours. The sheriff’s office—also the jail and the courthouse—was cramped and only half-heartedly tended to.

  Two cells sat side by side not ten feet from the back wall, and less than five feet from the sheriff’s desk. On the opposite wall stood a spare chair and the requisite row of filing cabinets—topped by a teetering stack of unfiled paperwork and a jumbled pile of hardware so mixed Monahan couldn’t tell what it was . . .or what it used to be. Two stacks of old newspapers swayed on the floor at the end of the file cabinets, and a door behind the desk led, according to the crooked sign, to the courthouse.

  He’d got a good, close-up look at Alf for the first time, and allowed that he’d never seen him before, only heard of his handiwork, and showed the tattered voucher for his brother. Pulling his wallet out again, he handed over the precious clipping to Sweeney with a low, “Don’t you lose that, hear?”

  Sweeney filed it away in his pocket without looking at it.

  Alf didn’t seem like such a bloodthirsty killer when he was behind bars. He was so thin and lanky he fairly rattled in his clothes, although the age and condition of his frayed and grimy trousers and shirt indicated his physical condition was nothing new.

  His visage revealed nothing more. His dull eyes were cloudy, which might explain his poor marksmanship. Or he could very simply be a bad shot.

  Monahan didn’t much care. He plain took a dislike to the man right off the bat, would have disliked him even if he hadn’t been in Alf’s sights earlier in the day. It was just the general principle of the thing.

  As for his opinion of Sheriff Carmichael, well, that hadn’t changed much since the night out at Blue’s place. He still found the sheriff too sold on himself to be of any interest, let alone even a feigned friendship.