“We ain’t got no one goin’ by Dooley in this gang, does we?” the man on the massive black mount finally asked.
“Ain’t got nobody usin’ the handle Monahans, neither.”
That sentence came from the third cuss, the one with the striped britches. He was puny. A spring wind might have carried him off like the furs on whatever those weeds with the furlike tops were called. Puny, and pale, with the coldest blue eyes Dooley had ever seen, sunk way back in his head. His blond hair, soaked by sweat and some Platte River water, hung like greasy rawhide strings. He was even uglier than that bearded lady back at that circus eighteen months back in Davenport, Iowa.
The man seemed so sickly, the big Smith & Wesson never steadied in his pasty white hand, but neither did it ever exactly not aim at one of Dooley’s vital organs.
“Monahan,” Dooley corrected. “No s. Just Monahan. Dooley Monahan.”
He thought if he kept talking, they might not kill him.
“Shut up,” barked the man on the black horse.
“Kill him, and let’s ride,” said the one on the buckskin mare. “Posse’ll be chasin’ us directly.”
“How did you come to be ridin’ with us?” asked the sickly one on the pinto. “Dooley Monahans.” He stressed the last name and especially the s on the end of it, even though it wasn’t Dooley’s name.
Dooley shrugged, but kept gripping that saddle horn. If he let go, those men would think he was going for his Colt, and he’d be plugged before he could explain by a .45, .38, and .44 bullet—and no telling what calibers or gauges from the men behind him.
“Came to Omaha to stock up,” Dooley said honestly. “Was riding out down that main street when you boys started whooping and hollering and riding.”
“And shooting,” said someone behind him.
“And shooting,” Dooley added.
The men behind Dooley chuckled. The ones in front of him did not even blink or crack a smile.
“Y’all kind of swept me up,” Dooley went on. “Wasn’t anything I could do but keep riding. If I stopped, you would have run over me. That would’ve caused quite the spill. Probably got one of you boys caught, if not killed.”
“We’re obliged to you for that,” said another voice behind him.
“Do you know who we are?” asked the tobacco-chewing man on the big black.
Dooley’s mouth went dry. He could only shake is head.
“Hubert,” came the first voice behind him. “My horse’s gone lame.”
“Now do you know who we are?” The man spit out more tobacco juice and shifted the quid to the opposite cheek.
Dooley just swallowed, but what he swallowed was mostly air. His mouth felt dried out like his skin did when he was farming. And his muscles did not respond when he tried to shake his head.
“C’mon, boy,” said the man with the long beard. “How many bank robbers you ever heard called Hubert?”
“Shut the hell up, Frank,” barked the tobacco chewer. “Hubert ain’t no name to be ashamed of. Belonged to my grandpappy on my ma’s side, and his grandpappy’s long before that.”
The bearded man grinned. “And now you know my name, Dooley Monahan.” At least he pronounced Dooley’s name correctly. “Frank Handley.”
“Which,” said the big man on the big black, “makes me Hubert Dobbs.”
“Which makes us,” said the thin man on the pinto mustang, “the Dobbs-Handley Gang.”
“A pleasure,” Dooley managed to say.
“Step down off that horse,” said the man who had not introduced himself.
“But first,” added Frank Handley, “pull that hogleg from your holster . . .”
“Real careful,” warned Hubert Dobbs.
“Real careful,” coached the second voice behind Dooley.
“And,” said Handley, “drop it to the ground.”
Dooley Monahan obeyed.
“Let go of the reins and step away from the horse. Kinda in my direction.” The tobacco chewer spit again. “That way. That’s good. Two more steps. Now one more. Now don’t move. Good. You take directions real good.”
“Thank you,” Dooley said.
The puny man leaned over in his saddle, and now managed to steady the .38 caliber Smith & Wesson. “Do I kill him now, Hubert?”
“No, Doc,” Hubert Dobbs said. “Gunshot would draw a posse.”
Which meant the sickly-looking man on the rangy pinto would be Doc Watson, the coldest and most vicious killer to ride with the Dobbs-Handley Gang.
“I can slit his throat,” came a new voice behind Dooley Monahan.
“You could,” Frank Handley said, “but Dooley Monahan rode with us. Maybe by accident. And maybe for just a few miles. But he rode with us. And we don’t murder men who rode with us. It ain’t in the code of the outlaw.”
Dooley’s heart skipped a beat. His mouth started to open to thank, to praise, Frank Handley.
Then everything went black.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over 300 books, including the series Preacher, the First Mountain Man, Maccallister, Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter, Flintlock, Those Jensen Boys!, Savage Texas, Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man, and The Family Jensen. His thrillers include Tyranny, Stand Your Ground, Suicide Mission, and the upcoming Black Friday.
Visit his website at www.williamjohnstone.net.
Being the all-around assistant, typist, researcher, and fact-checker to one of the most popular western authors of all time, J.A. JOHNSTONE learned from the master, Uncle William W. Johnstone.
The elder Johnstone began tutoring J.A. at an early age. After-school hours were often spent retyping manuscripts or researching his massive American Western History library as well as the more modern wars and conflicts. J.A. worked hard—and learned.
“Every day with Bill was an adventure story in itself. Bill taught me all he could about the art of storytelling. ‘Keep the historical facts accurate,’ he would say. ‘Remember the readers—and as your grandfather once told me, I am telling you now: Be the best J.A. Johnstone you can be.’”
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