But they weren’t ribbons. They were the long stems of the tall spring grass that came with the rains, and they were scarlet with blood, warm and drenching, red as red could be.
Slowly, she rose up the rest of the way, through the scarlet weeds until her head rose into the clear light and she saw him.
Or what was left of him . . . sitting on his horse with a hole blown clean through his chest.
Monahan stood on the trail, ten feet behind him, holding the rifle. “Your so-called uncle, I take it.”
She nodded. “Kirby Smithers, in the flesh. Or out of it, I guess. You blew a hole clean through him.”
The old cowboy pursed his lips. “Well, the rifle did, not me.”
“It’s a hole and it’s clean through him, just the same.”
Blue came from behind Monahan and crossed to her, baring his teeth and growling softly when he circled Smithers. Even the dog knew he was no good. Even Blue was smarter than she had been when she went with him eagerly, when she trusted him.
She felt her mouth open. “Is Butch . . . ?”
“He’ll be fine. Appears that he’s a hard feller to shoot square in the middle. People keep just skinnin’ the edges.” Monahan walked forward and held a hand down to her. “C’mon, now. We gotta get to Yuma before those Baylors o’ yours start stinkin’ any more than they did when they rode in.”
But she shook her head. “I gotta round up the horses. They’re probably ten miles away by—”
She felt something push against her leg and looked down to see Blue through the bloody weeds. He had one of Parnell’s reins and the lead rope to the burro in his mouth, and he was wagging his hind quarters like a dog possessed.
Monahan guessed what she was seeing by the look on her face. “A little herdin’ does him a worlda good, don’t it?”
She took the rein and the lead rope, wiping Blue’s spittle away on her bloody shirt, and moved toward the trail which had once borne the gaudy title of Heber’s Kiss Highway.
Blue had already rounded up Chili, the Baylors’ horses, and General Grant, who had wandered about a half mile south of the road and were darn near invisible, since they were standing in thick scrub and grazing with their heads down in the grass.
She watched while Monahan fixed up Sweeney. She figured he must have a curse on his left side, except the latest bullet had hit his upper arm instead of his shoulder. It had gone through clean and the wound didn’t need sewing, but still, it had to hurt something fierce.
They tied Smithers—deader than a bent spoon but still stubbornly slumped over—into his saddle. She swore she could see right through him where the slug had passed through the cage of his rib bones and burst out his front. She was a little surprised the sight didn’t make her throw up.
As they started toward Yuma again, she remembered to ask Monahan just where he got off speaking Apache. He had the nerve to say he didn’t know what she was talking about, claiming he’d never heard it let alone spoken it.
Sweeney spoke up. “Oh, quit horsin’ her, Dooley! We both heard you talkin’ Apache like you was one o’ them!
“I don’t know what the heck’s got you two so addled!” Monahan replied, all of a sudden a little cranky.
Julia looked at Sweeney and Sweeney looked at Julia, silently agreeing it wasn’t the time to be pressing the old cowboy. It must be one of his “forgetful things.”
Behind them trailed a string of bodies, a cranky burro, and the blue dog.
Statement of Miss Julia Cooperman
As Given at Yuma Prison Marshal’s Office
Received by Marshal Sam Peck
This May 3, Year of Our Lord 1873
My name is Julia Cooperman, age thirteen, formerly of Iron Creek, Arizona Territory. My friends and I were passing through a town south of here called Heber’s Kiss when we were beset by outlaws, who we later learned were the infamous Baylor brothers, Alf and Dev.
They cornered us in the old saloon, which was deserted aside from us, and where we had taken shelter the night before.
They shot my friend, Butch Sweeney, twice in the shoulder, and left him lying in the street. I was pinned down inside the building.
The back door opened and Alf Baylor burst in. He carried a pistol and was swinging it around like he wanted to shoot at somebody, so I shot at him. Well, he shot first, but missed me. I didn’t miss him.
Mr. Sweeney called to me from outside to watch out, as Dev was going around the back. He came in, all right, firing his gun. I shot back. My slug struck him and he fell to the floor. I called to Mr. Sweeney, who came in to see that I was safe. He checked the men to see if they were dead. They were.
The other body belongs to my guardian, Mr. Kirby Smithers, also of Iron Creek. He was shot in the back by one of those Baylors, I don’t know which one because he was in the stable and I couldn’t see him.
I hereby swear this is my true statement, and I witness it by signing here, below.
(Signed) Julia Cooperman
(Date) May 3, l873
After Julia made her statement and signed it—while she nervously crossed the fingers of her left hand in her pocket—the marshal filed it away in his office.
He took a brief statement from Sweeney about the Apache attack, but the young cowboy had to leave him hanging at the end, for obvious reasons.
“I don’t get it. I mean, unless you could talk to ’em or do somethin’ to spook ’em off . . .” The marshal shook his head slowly.
Julia saw their whole story going up in a puff of smoke with each head shake, before she blurted, “We had that dog with us, Butch. Some kind of fuzzy little shepherd dog with no tail. He had blue eyes. Don’t they call ’em . . . whatcha call . . . spirit dogs or somethin’? The Indians, I mean?”
The Marshal leaned forward on his elbows. “Ghost dogs! I ain’t never seen one myself, but I hear tell they can have a powerful effect on the heathen.”
“That must o’ been what done it,” Sweeney agreed enthusiastically. “When they saw that dog, they just filed right back from wherever it was they come from. Too bad about that dog,” he added sorrowfully and dropped his head. “He run off after those Indians. That was the last we seen of him.”
There was a little more small talk, but the marshal bought their story and bought it whole. “I’ll get one copy of your statement sent to the bank up in Prescott tomorrow,” Marshal Peck told Julia. “You’ll have yours and your voucher to show when you get to a bank.”
Sweeney asked why she couldn’t get her money right then. The Marshal explained that the bank in Yuma didn’t have the funds to cover what they owed her. Sweeney started to take exception, but Julia stopped him. She was afraid he was pushing it.
Besides, she didn’t want to irritate the marshal. She was grateful to get those corpses off her hands and not get charged with murder in the process. Getting shed of Uncle Kirby’s body was just icing on the cake, so far as she was concerned.
She only wanted to get out of town, collect Monahan, and get moving east. She missed the dog, and wanted to put as much distance between herself and all that death as she possibly could.
24
Julia and Sweeney rode out of Yuma at last, leading only the burro, Goat. Half an hour later, they joined Monahan. The afternoon was nearly gone, but they kept on moving until they ran out of daylight and the old cowboy called a halt.
They camped by the river’s bank. Monahan made a fire near some scattered boulders about fifteen feet from the water’s edge, and threw together the fixings for a good beef stew made with the vittles he had bought in town. Sweeney took some more of the pain medicine the doc in town had given him for his arm and shoulder after he dug out the last of the slugs, and Julia snuggled down with her old Navajo blanket and waited for her supper. The evening air was crisp, and she was glad for the blanket’s comfort.
“I been thinkin’,” she said into the silence.
Monahan looked up and nodded approvingly. “Ever’body oughta think. Good for the soul. What
’s got the bee in your bonnet?”
She tightened the blanket around her neck. “What hasn’t?”
Monahan cocked his head. “You’re thinkin’ that you seen enough bad things in the past couple o’ days to last you more ’n a lifetime.”
Surprised, she nodded. “How’d you know that?”
“Reckon we all feel about the same way. A little bit of dyin’ an’ bodies shootin’ at you with arrows or iron goes a long way with most folks.”
She let out a sigh. “Yeah. Reckon it does.”
“Even when it comes for some trashy pond scum like it come for the Baylors. And Vince.”
“And Uncle Kirby?”
“Your uncle, too.” Monahan poured them both a cup of coffee, and after he handed hers over, he sniffed the air, then made a face. “Blue take a crap close to camp?”
Julia felt herself flush. “It’s me, not Blue.”
Monahan’s head cocked again.
“I sat in some wolf scat earlier. Back when Kirby put us all in the weeds.”
“You wanna get yourself cleaned up?”
She slowly got to her feet and scowled at him. “If you’re tryin’ to hint, you ain’t doin’ a very good job of bein’ roundabout.”
The old cowboy smiled. “Got just enough time before dinner. Get outta here and take that wolf stink with you. It’s upsettin’ the dog.”
Blue, stretched out on the other side of the fire, yawned.
Julia said, “Yeah, I can see that he’s all outta shape about it.” She pulled her spare britches out of her saddle bags, found the yellowed sliver of soap she’d stolen from the saloon’s makeshift kitchen, and made her way down to the riverbank. Having already calculated the way to be naked for the least amount of time, she left the clean britches and her boots up on a flat boulder and waded out before she squatted into the water and began to scrub the seat of her pants.
She heard Sweeney’s voice, and quickly glanced at the fire. The smell of the stew had roused him at last, and he was sitting up with his eyes open, and holding his plate out toward Monahan. She snorted under her breath and shook her head. That darn Butch, she was thinking. He can always force himself to eat, can’t he?
By the time she’d scrubbed the britches clean, dried off, changed clothes, and made her way back over to the fire, Sweeney was scraping his plate clean. She laid her pants out flat over a rock as she said, “Guess I got back just in time to get my measly bite of stew.”
Sweeney raised a brow. “Measly? Since when did you ever take a measly bite of anything?”
“Since I made your acquaintance and started havin’ to share grub with you,” she said without a second’s hesitation. She peered into the pot and made a face. “See there? It’s practically gone already, and I ain’t yet et a bite of it!”
“Hold it!” Monahan thundered, his hand in the air. “I swear, if words were clubs, you two would be black and blue! Here.” He held her plate—full and still steaming—out toward her. “Oh,” she said, and accepted it numbly. “Guess I yelled without thinkin’. Sorry, Butch.”
“That’s more like it, girl!” Sweeney said.
Monahan promptly threw a spoonful of hot beef gravy in his direction.
The next day found the trio back on the Old Mormon Trail, again heading east toward Phoenix, and more important, back toward Buckshot Bob and Mae Hoskins’s ranch and stage stop. They couldn’t get there fast enough to suit Monahan, although Sweeney, who was still healing from his shoulder wounds, would have been content to throw down temporary roots anywhere along the trail and just sleep for a few days. And eat, too, of course.
As for young Julia, she went along with mixed feelings. She missed the safety and comfort of the Hoskins’ home and the friendship of their daughter, Meggie. She had never had a real buddy before, but despite their short acquaintance and the slight difference in their ages, she and Meggie had become great friends.
But what would she do without Monahan to protect her?
As for Sweeney, she’d miss him more than she’d ever admit, but it was the old cowboy and the dog who tugged hardest at her heartstrings. Not that she’d say as much to him. She’d already told Blue—who miraculously managed to keep up with them, despite the heat—trotting at a steady pace in one of the horse’s shadow, and she figured that was enough.
It took them several days on the sparkling-sided trail to reach the Hoskins ranch, and once there, they received the warmest of welcomes. It was like they were genuine conquering heroes, Julia would later say. It seemed no one who had met Dooley Monahan escaped his presence without becoming a fan, and while she wasn’t right, she was close to it.
“I appreciate it, Bob,” Monahan said. The two men were sitting out on the front porch, smoking, and everyone else had gone off to bed. “Poor little thing ain’t got nobody or no place to belong.”
“The gals have taken a real strong likin’ to each other,” Buckshot Bob said, nodding. “It’s as good for Meggie as it is for Julia.”
The old cowboy took a drag on his smoke. “’Bout what I thought . . . Now, don’t forget about them reward vouchers. That’s her money for her life.”
Buckshot Bob nodded thoughtfully, then flicked his ash. “It’s a lot, all right.”
Beside Monahan, Blue stretched and yawned, then flipped over onto his back and groaned happily. It was the end of a long, hot journey, and he was grateful for a night with good food and fresh water. He sensed that Monahan was relieved, too. He’d felt the old cowboy truly relax for the first time, and it was good.
Blue stretched again, lifting his front paws to rake at invisible ladder rungs and relaxing his mouth so that his lips fell open, leaving him with a big, toothy, upside down doggy grin.
It was all good.
Julia woke to the sounds of shuffling boots on wooden floors and of men tramping through the house. Yawning, she got up and wandered out to the kitchen, letting Meggie sleep while she could.
Julia found a stack of hotcakes on the table, along with a bowl half filled with fresh whipped cream and a pitcher of blueberry syrup. There was oatmeal on the stove, too, but not one living soul in evidence.
She started calling for people as she walked through the house, but didn’t find anyone until she was clear outside—Monahan and Sweeney were out front, General Grant and Chili were tacked up and ready to go, and Bob and Mae were bidding them farewell.
“You’re leavin, and you weren’t even gonna wake me up?” Julia asked from the front porch.
Monahan let the cinch strap drop, then pulled the stirrup free from the saddle horn and let it swing down into place. He turned toward her and said grandly, “Well, good mornin’ to you, Miss Julia!”
“Don’t try to make me feel guilty just ’cause I didn’t say good mornin!” she huffed.
“Now, honey . . .”
“You were gonna just leave me, without so much as a by-your-leave!” She felt the tears welling and felt the thickness in her throat, both as surprising as they were sudden. “Please, don’t . . . you can’t . . .” She began to cry, and clutched the post and rail to hold herself erect.
Monahan tossed his reins to Sweeney, then stepped toward her. “Now, honey,” he said as he took her in his arms. “Don’t go and make a thing of it.”
She let go of the porch rail, relying on him to hold her up, and cried into his shoulder.
“I just convinced myself it’d be easier if we . . . Well, if we was already gone when you got up.”
She shook her head no and sobbed harder.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Julia honey. Just didn’t figure you’d take it this hard. Now, me and Butch ain’t goin’ to Europe or nothin’. We’ll see you again.”
She lifted her head and looked up into his rheumy old eyes and whispered, “I wish you were my pa.” She ducked back down again.
She felt him kiss the top of her head, then release her, and she fell into a sit on the porch step. She heard him say, “All right then, Bob. Take care o’ those kids,
Mae.”
His saddle leather creaked. “Good-bye, Julia. Take ’er easy.”
Sweeney said something similar in farewell, although she couldn’t have told you what it was to save her life. She felt warm fur brush against her arm as Blue came over to say good-bye, too. His tongue wiped the tears from her nose and chin, and he whined softly.
“Oh, good-bye, Blue dog.” She wept as she buried her face in his ruff. “Travel safe.” She opened her eyes, and found him looking back at her, his eyes filled with love. “Travel safe, Blue.”
25
In five days, the men had got as far as Phoenix. Just what Monahan had intended to do. Sweeney had no clue regarding a plan. Every time he had broached the subject, Monahan had managed to turn the conversation on its head and thoroughly distract him.
The old cowboy had parked them in a hotel far from anything interesting, and Sweeney was bored silly. He had never before been to a town the size of Phoenix, and despite the nagging ache in his wounded shoulder, he’d been looking forward to spending some time in the big city.
But all Monahan did was complain . . . about how expensive everything was . . . and Apaches . . . and how far they had to go yet, which was still a mystery to Sweeney.
He’d only been out of the hotel twice, to check the horses. He’d taken his time on both occasions, walking down the street several blocks in every direction, north, south, east, and west. He’d seen houses—big houses, little houses, shanties and lean-tos barely cobbled together, nice houses where families lived, and fancy houses. He’d been tempted to go into one of the latter, just to see what it was like—well, and test their wares, he had to admit—but he was too poor to walk through their front gates, let alone ask a lady upstairs to pleasure him. He was broke.
The Trail West Page 18
