The Trail West

by William W. Johnstone

  They were almost on the far western horizon when she made it to the road. It sparkled ahead of her like two lines of giant, broken diamonds in the sun, and she rode between them as fast as she could, with her head down so her Irish setter hair mixed with Parnell’s black mane. It flew and fluttered in the wind like an ebony and scarlet banner.

  “Well!” Monahan declared when she finally drew up and fell into pace with them. Her horse was blowing from her hard gallop from the station, and she was a little out of breath, too.

  “About time,” Sweeney grumbled.

  George tipped his hat a tad and said, “Howdy to you, Miss Julia.”

  “We’re all glad you could make it, honey,” continued Monahan. “You get your bankbook?”

  Julia nodded. “You fellas sure cut outta there in a big toot! Where we goin’ in such an all-fired hurry?”

  Monahan’s only answer was a half-mad laugh, but Sweeney said, “Goin’ west, then north.”

  “To where?”

  George twisted toward her, a big smile on his face. “To Alaska! Gonna make our fortunes.”

  Julia just nodded and said, “Oh, Alaska,” like that was someplace that everybody and his Uncle Ned ought to see before they died. She was a child of the West and had heard of the place, of course, but also being a native of the southern clime, she couldn’t see why anybody would want to go up there, especially on purpose!

  But she kept her mouth shut, figuring some things either played out or disappeared over time. She didn’t soon find out which was the case because they continued on in silence, then stopped for the night in much the same way they always had. Monahan’s mood continued to be high—at least, according to his expression—and George was the same.

  It wasn’t until they had gone to sleep—and Blue had curled up on Julia’s bedroll and sighed a deep sigh—that Sweeney whispered across the campfire. “Pssst! Julia!”

  Reluctantly, she forced her eyes open. She’d been climbing into the arms of Morpheus, and was a little disgruntled. She said, “What?” more loudly than intended.

  “Keep your tone down!” whispered Sweeney.

  “I’d ruther just turn it clear off. What you want?”

  “Dooley say anything to you? ’Bout where we’re goin’, I mean.”

  Julia furrowed her brow. “Both him and George think we’re goin’ to Alaska, the loons. Of all the places!”

  “We are. I’m askin’, did they say anythin’ else?”

  Julia snorted out air, then lay back down and pulled the blanket up. This beat everything! If Sweeney thought they were going to Alaska, too, they probably were. She threw an arm around the still-sleeping Blue, and said, “I don’t know a damn thing more than you do. Now, lemme go back to sleep!”

  She yanked the blanket the rest of the way up to cover her face and closed her eyes. She supposed Sweeney did, too, because the next thing she knew Blue was snuffling at her face, and it was morning.

  The following week, they were still spending long days in the saddle, but at least they had run clean out of west and were traveling north along the coast. It was just like Dooley had said it would be, Julia thought, and so she kept her mouth shut. She was still uncertain as to their ultimate goal, but she was learning to live with uncertainty.

  They were riding along when Monahan suddenly thumbed them over to the east, until the ocean was clean out of sight, until they couldn’t even hear the waves breaking anymore. Julia got more and more tense with each step the horses took. She figured they had finally come near their goal, and that any moment, Monahan would reveal it to her.

  But they just kept riding northward, gradually up a seemingly endless rocky slope, and then over to the west once again without any sign from Monahan except for the occasional wave of his hand. Julia was on the verge of calling a halt once and for all when she heard the first whispers of the sea pushing into her range of hearing. She perked up, startling Blue—who rode behind her on Parnell’s rump, as he had been since the midday stop for lunch—but not saying a word. She held her breath and listened harder.

  They were indeed approaching the ocean again, but at a much higher vantage point. The world seemed to fall away, and when she rode closer, she found herself high atop a steep drop-off. The ocean roared far below and met the steep rocks in crashing waves. She shuddered and reined Parnell away, choosing to ride about ten feet from the brink. She could still see the edge of the precipice, but was in no danger of accidentally toppling over it.

  She fell in behind the other three, who had already chosen the inland path and seemed unconcerned by their proximity to the edge. Personally, she was still shaking inside.

  They continued on for what seemed like hours, until it began to grow dusky. Their shadows grew long at their sides, and the sun began to lower itself below the far end of the ocean. Ahead, Monahan’s arm rose up and she heard him call a halt. She was hungry and chilly, and therefore grateful. The first thing she did once she dismounted was to pull open her saddlebags and pull out her jacket. They must have traveled farther north than she thought.

  She was right. They had managed to get themselves almost all the way to San Francisco in the past week or so—a joyful tidbit shared by Monahan over dinner—and would ride into its outskirts the next afternoon. He promised they’d have hotel beds to sleep in and restaurant meals to eat and hostlers to take care of their horses and real outhouses to use. It would be his treat! Well, for a few days, anyway.

  She cranked up her courage. “And then what?” she asked between bites of quail stew.

  “Well, that’s up to you!” he replied cryptically, and George laughed.

  She and Sweeney just sat there, silenced, she supposed, by their own stupidity.

  She looked over at him and he looked at her, and then she suddenly found her voice again. “What’d you mean, Dooley? S’pose I choose to say that we all ride right into the Pacific Ocean?”

  Monahan laughed, and George said, “Then I figure you’re not half as smart as I thought.” He turned to Dooley.

  “That ’bout sums it up, I’d say.” Monahan topped off George’s stew, then held up the ladle and asked, “Anybody else?”

  Julia and Sweeney held out their plates.

  30

  They rode into San Francisco the following afternoon and settled the horses at the Simmons Livery, then signed the register at the Dew Drop Inn. Feeling magnanimous, Monahan signed for all the rooms, even George’s, and then announced he was taking them all to dinner, and they should all go clean up.

  While the others set off with keys in hands, Sweeney lingered. The whole thing made him . . . uneasy. He’d never seen Monahan so happy and footloose. Admittedly, they hadn’t known each other long, but they’d gone through enough together that it should make up for a lost year or two, maybe even three! Anyhow, he figured it that way.

  And it bothered him royally that he still had no idea where they were headed. He’d asked George, too, but he was as slippery as Monahan.

  Dinner was the time to press for the rest of the information. He planned to do just that. No ifs, ands, or buts.

  Sweeney and Julia met in the hallway and walked down the stairs to find Monahan and George waiting for them in the lobby. George opened the door for everybody, laughing and bowing, and Monahan ushered them up the street. They walked about two blocks, with Julia terrified by the hustle and bustle going on, before he pulled them into a place called Morgan’s Fine Dining.

  Halfway to a table, Monahan stopped stock still. Almost running into him, Sweeney grabbed the old cowboy’s shoulder to steady himself, and said, “What’s wrong, Dooley?”

  “You see that feller sittin’ over there, by the window?”

  “Yeah. What about him?”

  “Don’t know. Somethin’ about him, though.” Monahan gave a last glare to the table at which the man sat, then continued on after Julia, George, and the waiter. Sweeney followed, and they were all seated. Monahan stared at the stranger’s table.

  “Why don
’tcha go on over there?” the young cowboy finally asked.

  “Bad idea,” Monahan replied, without bothering to turn toward him.

  Sweeney was getting disgusted. It was bad enough when Monahan got spooked on the road, but in a big town, with folks all round who could hear him? It was plain embarrassing!

  He ordered along with the others, and by the time their dinner arrived—still sizzling from the grill—Monahan was dividing his attention evenly between the table across the room and his own. Dinner itself? Well, that captured his attention entirely.

  It distracted Sweeney completely, too. It was steak—a juicy tenderloin, thick and wrapped in bacon—and lobster which he was convinced he wasn’t going to like. But it turned out that he was crazy for it, and swallowed down every last butter-soaked scrap of the sweet stuff. Who would have thought something that looked so much like a big old water bug could taste so flavorful and rich?

  The lobster was clearly a hit with Julia and George too, although he waited until the others had eaten at least half of theirs before he tried his first bite. But then, he was off to the races!

  They cleaned their plates, leaving only the empty remains of the cracked lobster shells.

  Julia leaned back in her chair with her hands splayed out over her stomach. “Holy cripes!” she muttered. “That was g-o-o-d with a capital good!”

  Monahan smiled wide. “Kinda makes you wonder how inland folks survive without it, don’t it?”

  “Sure does, Dooley,” George said, and sighed happily while the waiter cleared the table, then slid a thick slice of lemon meringue pie before him.

  They had ordered desert when they ordered their dinner, and each of them sat before the confection that had tickled his or her fancy.

  Sweeney finished his strawberry shortcake first with Julia not far behind, spooning up the last of her ice cream. Monahan swallowed the last bite of chocolate mousse and pushed back from the table.

  “We goin’ already?” George asked around a mouthful of lemon meringue pie.

  Monahan stood up and waved. “No, you stay on and finish your supper, George. I just remembered somethin’ I’ve gotta do.” He shoved his chair back under the table. “See you back at the hotel!”

  Before Sweeney could think twice, the old cowboy was out the door and gone.

  When Monahan told them he had remembered something, he wasn’t fooling. He had finally figured out why that man seemed so familiar, and he had remembered the man’s name. Len Dobbs was a little grayer of hair, but it was him, all right.

  A quick look showed Len about two blocks up the street—right out in front of the hotel, in fact. Monahan scurried to close the distance, but Len had moved on to the livery where General Grant was boarded. Len had best not try to steal his horse!

  Horse thievery was, of course, what Len Dobbs had been guilty of, and it was what Monahan had been blamed for when the horse thief had skipped town. That was back in . . . Monahan had to stop and think. Cheyenne, wasn’t it? He remembered it was awful cold, and the horse in question was a gray Missouri Fox Trotter that just happened to be his! He snorted. It was just his luck to get arrested for stealing his own horse. Silver King, he remembered. That was the horse’s name. It had taken him nearly a month to get hold of the fellow who had sold the horse to him and prove his ownership. Of course, by that time, Len Dobbs and Silver King were long gone.

  It was kind of odd that the man was in San Francisco, but Monahan wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak. He wanted a few choice words with old Len. At the least, he wanted to give him a well-deserved punch in the mouth.

  It was the least he could do.

  As he watched, Dobbs’ figure vanished into the stable. Damn it! he thought. That mushy-faced straw walker’s up to no good again! Monahan lengthened his stride to a half run and sped down the walk toward the livery.

  He paused outside the wide doors, listening and thinking. All he heard were rustles of straw and hay, the soft sounds of livestock put up for the night.

  He didn’t trust his ears, though. So far as he knew, ol’ Lenny was still inside, and probably getting General Grant ready to hotfoot it out of town! Slowly, he drew his gun. Holding it level with his waist, he stepped into the soft light spilling through the wide doorway.

  There was no one inside. Not one blessed soul! He looked all around, shook his head, and then slowly slid his Colt back into its holster. He could have sworn . . . Well, hell.

  He was even dizzier than he figured, thinking he’d seen ol’ Lenny Dobbs in San Francisco! Now, that was a laugh. Dobbs would fit in with San Francisco Brahmins—or Barbary Coast denizens, for that matter—like Monahan would fit in at a retreat for Roman Catholic monks—which was, of course, not at all.

  He made his way over to General Grant, who was half asleep in his stall with his knees locked, his eyes half lidded. “Well, how you doin’, ol’ son?” Monahan soothed. One of the General’s eyelids rose a bit, and the ear on that side pivoted toward him. He smiled. “Didn’t figure you was sleepin’.”

  As he held out his hand to rub the horse, he felt a sudden, searing pain at the top of his head and collapsed, unconscious, on the straw-strewn floor.

  There was a rap at the door and Julia looked up. “Who is it?”

  Although it was muffled by the heavy oak door, she heard the reply just fine. “It’s me. Butch.”

  “C’mon in. The door’s not locked.”

  The door creaked open, and she looked up from her cards. She was playing solitaire on the bedspread.

  Sweeney stood in the doorway. “You seen Dooley?”

  She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Not since dinner. You check his room?”

  Sweeney shook his head. “He ain’t in there. Ain’t anywhere. I was hopin’ you had him.”

  “It’s early yet, Butch. He’s probably off just doin’ Dooley stuff.”

  The young cowboy cocked a brow. “Dooley stuff?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. Stuff that he doesn’t think we’re ready for yet, or stuff that he thinks is going to be too hard on our tender eyes or ears, or just things he doesn’t think are any of our business.” She put a red jack on a black queen.

  “Wondered when you were gonna see that.”

  “Yeah, like you could see it from over there.”

  Blue chose that moment to jump over to the bed from the armchair, and her neatly placed stacks and rows of pasteboards suddenly looked as if they’d been run through with a harrow. The dog seemed unconcerned, and smiled at her.

  She made a face at him and muttered, “I was gonna win this one for real, you dirty ol’ dog!” She looked over at Sweeney again. “What’re you lookin’ at?” she demanded. “He ain’t in here, and I don’t know where he is.” She began to scrape the cards back into some semblance of order. “Move your foot, Blue.”

  Sweeney bent and scooped up a few cards Blue had sent flying his way and handed them to her. “Okay,” he said as he turned to go back into the hall. “Sorry to bother you.”

  Why did he have to do that? Why did he have to turn around and be nice to her once she thought she’d put him in his place?

  “Butch?”

  He turned and stuck his head back inside the room. “Yeah?”

  Suddenly, she didn’t know what to say. Instead of stammering like a fool, she said, “Could you take Blue out? He ain’t been since before we went to supper.”

  “Sure. C’mon, Blue.” He gestured, and the dog sprang from the bed all the way out into the hall. He landed with his backside wiggling, and Sweeney laughed.

  So did Julia, but she covered her mouth. “Thanks, Butch,” she said, although it was muffled.

  “I’ll bring him back,” he said, as Blue sprang up to lick him square on the nose. “Easy, boy! Might take him back to my room for a while, first. He’s good company, ’specially when there ain’t nothin’ decent to read.”

  Julia looked up from her cards, intending to ask why he hadn’t snagged a newspaper from the
pile out in the lobby, but he’d gone off down the hall. She called, “Hey! Shut the door, will you?”

  She heard the thump of running boots, then saw his arm snake in to take hold of her door’s latch and pull it closed.

  “Thank you!” she said loudly as the boots thumped back toward the front lobby.

  She heard him call, “Hey, Blue! Wait for me!” then the muffled sound of a collision, then Butch saying, “Sorry ma’am. Excuse me!”

  Smiling, she shook her head, then went back to her cards.

  31

  Monahan came back into consciousness. He was all alone in a strange place. Although he quickly recognized General Grant, nothing else was even slightly familiar. His head hurt, and he was pretty sure somebody had hit him. The coward! He quickly went through his own pockets and found nothing that contained a name, but discovered that he was practically rich. There was over a thousand dollars in his wallet, which stopped him from searching it further. One thousand dollars! A man could live a good long time on a thousand dollars.

  Why was he carrying that much cash money? Was he a gambler? Or maybe a rancher who had just sold some stock . . .

  Outside the livery, somebody walked along the sidewalk.

  Monahan was well back from the door and most certainly couldn’t be seen by passersby, but in case their eyes searched the dim interior, in case they knew to look for an old man squatting on the floor outside a bay horse’s stall and rifling through his own wallet, he scurried back, hiding the wallet and himself. He stood up a few minutes later, when he was sure the coast was clear, and saddled General Grant.

  He didn’t actually recall the entirety of General Grant’s name. Oh, he was certain about the General part, but confused as to the specifics. Lee? Sherman? Grant? Maybe Custer? He’d figure it out in time.