It had been a gamble, of course. Dooley knew he had unloaded the sawed-off twelve-gauge, but for all he knew, the man with the eye patch and brutalized face had filled the twin barrels with fresh loads of double-ought buckshot. Dooley figured it was a bet worth making. It was his only chance to get out of this fix alive.
The dugout was small, but the big brute reached the table well before Dooley or the Norwegian. Keeping the empty scattergun in his left hand, he picked up the Colt with his right, slipping a finger—missing the top joint—into the trigger guard while his thumb began pulling back on the .45’s hammer. The gun came up, and as the brute turned around, Blue’s teeth clamped onto the man’s wrist.
“Arrgghhhhh!!” he roared, and the Colt .45 dropped onto the table, which overturned, kicking up a cloud of dust from the dirt floor.
His left arm rose, intent on braining the shepherd with the stock of the shotgun. That’s when Ole and Dooley slammed into the outlaw.
Dooley took the man low. The giant farmer took him high. The man grunted, Blue let go of his arm, and the dog disappeared in the dust. That happened in a second. Then they slammed into the wall, sending mounds of dirt cascading like a Rocky Mountain waterfall.
The farmer’s home turned into choking torture. Dooley came up, but had to use both fists to push the dirt and grime from his eyes. A second later, he felt the big outlaw’s boot smash into his chest. The blow sent him backward, crashing over the farmer’s chair, rolling to the wall. He hit it hard, causing more dirt to rain from the ceiling.
Up he came, now spitting out dirt. Somewhere in the swirling dust, he heard Blue’s growls, and curses, grunts, and punches from Ole and the badman.
Dooley stepped out of the falling dust and charged into the cloud. It hurt to breathe. A fist grazed his cheek, but Dooley responded. He made contact with flesh and bone, pulled back. That boot found him again, and he landed, rolled over the dog, who cried out, and darted into the debris. Ole cried out in pain, but Dooley couldn’t see the man. He couldn’t see anything but falling dirt and clouds of dust. Dooley charged into the maelstrom, lowered his shoulder, and—though he saw nothing—knew he had slammed into the outlaw’s gut. It had to be the outlaw. He didn’t smell like a farmer.
He braced himself for impact against the wall and figured he would most likely be buried alive with Blue and Ole and that scoundrel, but to his surprise he kept going and going. He no longer felt so hot, so dirty, and the air turned fresher. He could breathe, and his eyes, though burning from the dirt and debris, seemed to find daylight. He felt the wind, too. Then he landed. The outlaw grunted, and Dooley rolled off. He scrambled to his feet. His lungs worked hard, taking in the fresh air, and tears washed dirt from his eyes. Dooley couldn’t see clearly, but he saw well enough.
The outlaw stood, coming to his feet, coughing, and wheezing, before he straightened. Dooley heard something and saw the big farmer crawling out of the dugout, which appeared to be collapsing. When the big Norwegian pulled himself to his feet and leaned against the hill, dust bellowed out of the shrinking opening like smoke from a horrid house fire. Dooley grimaced, but felt relief when Blue darted from the tumult.
Dirt coated the shepherd so much he no longer looked blue, but the dog did not bother to shake off any grime. Instead, he growled and began approaching the outlaw.
“Blue,” Dooley said softly, and coughed. The dog stopped.
“Stay.”
The merle-colored dog obeyed.
Wetting his lips, Dooley tried to think of what he should do. This appeared to be a stalemate. No weapons to speak of. Dooley’s Colt was by now buried under about five hundred pounds of dirt inside what had been that farmer’s home.
“Take your money,” Dooley said. “That’s what you come for. Take your money . . . and go.”
The man brought his left hand to his mouth and wiped the dirt from his bloodied lips.
“And the horse?”
Dooley considered this, and it didn’t take him long.
“Take General Grant, too,” he said. The dog, as if he understood English, turned toward Dooley and uttered a little whimper.
“It’s all right,” Dooley told Blue, although the words were more for Dooley Monahan than that dog. He told himself, mentally, that if General Grant was smart enough to buck off that beast of a killer and make his way back to find Dooley once, well, he certainly could do it again.
“Take the horse,” Dooley said. “Take your money. Just leave us be.”
Everything might have worked out. But the roof caved in, and the door exploded out of the opening, and Ole Something-another-dorf let out a roar as he turned around, backed up a few paces, and watched his home destroyed. Then the big man turned savagely and charged the outlaw with the eye patch, scooping up the grubbing hoe that had been knocked into the yard as he moved.
He moved gracefully for such a big, powerful farmer.
“No!” Dooley shouted.
Blue jumped out of the farmer’s way and looked at Dooley for some command, but Dooley was already running. Out of the corner of his eye, Dooley saw Blue charging, too. He also spotted the outlaw as the big cur reached behind his back, and knew the man most likely had a revolver tucked inside his waistband. He remembered seeing the man make a move behind his back before, most likely deciding that Dooley’s .45 Colt on the table would be easier to reach.
The pistol the man grabbed and brought up in his giant right hand was ancient.
No wonder, Dooley thought later, he wanted my gun instead of his.
Right then, Dooley did not get that good of a look at it, but it was an old Smith & Wesson rimfire, with a five-inch barrel and no trigger guard. He lowered his shoulder, but knew he had no chance of reaching the one-eyed killer before a bullet was fired.
In fights like these, where a man has to kill to stay alive, things happen, and once you try to sort through why they happened, you might go crazy. The outlaw had to make a choice, and the big man with the eye patch chose to shoot Ole first.
Which probably made sense. He was the biggest of the attackers, and the closest, and probably looked the most dangerous, although he had already felt Blue’s fangs.
A big thumb cocked the hammer, and a massive finger squeezed the tiny trigger. Dooley heard the. 32’s pop, but didn’t see Ole go down. By then, the outlaw was turning, ducking to one knee, bringing up his free hand to fan back the Smith & Wesson’s hammer. He was aiming at Dooley when Blue’s teeth ripped into the man’s flesh. That was a glancing blow, for the man cursed, turned, dropped the pistol, and sent Blue sailing toward the prairie Ole Something-another-dorf was trying to turn into a wheat field. Or potato patch.
Then Dooley slammed into the big beast and knocked him onto his back. Dooley rolled off, came to his feet, and caught just a glimpse of Ole, the big Norwegian farmer. What he saw enraged Dooley into anger he had never felt.
Dooley stepped toward the one-eyed outlaw, who also had sprung quickly to his feet. Dooley sidestepped the man’s left and sent a right fist into the man’s nose.
Blood spurted and cartilage gave way. The already twisted nose became even more crooked, and the man gasped like a girl and staggered back. Dooley hit him again, twice, a left that broke some of the man’s teeth, and a right that glanced that bloodied ear.
Dooley kept coming, fists into the man’s head. The man staggered back, grunting, turning his head right and left, sending blood and saliva sailing. When he finally brought up his arms to shelter his bloodied face, Dooley went to work on the man’s ribs, his stomach, and he was even so angry, he stopped just long enough to kick the man in the balls.
Cowboying all those years had made Dooley tough, wiry, and determined, but the past two years he had spent on the farm—forking hay, pushing a plow behind a mule, carrying sacks of grain and corn, and sweating in Iowa from sunup to sundown—had made Dooley Monahan stronger than even Ole, and especially stronger than a miserable swine like this fellow with the patch over one eye, who was too lazy to work for a
n honest man’s dollar.
Somewhere behind Dooley, Blue barked out encouragement.
The kick to the groin brought something out of the outlaw, something menacing and brutal. As the big man came up, lowering his arms, Dooley slammed two rights into the man’s face, an uppercut left to the jaw, and another right that glanced off the man’s shoulder. Then that big fellow swung a fist that sent Dooley sailing. He landed on his back, rolled over, but got only to his knees when the man’s fist caught him again. Dooley went down, rolled over, and kept rolling because he glimpsed the man jumping up, trying to land on Dooley with all his weight. A blow like that would have crushed Dooley’s spine into splinters and dust. But the man landed hard, too hard, and fell to his knees. Dooley took that advantage to climb to his feet.
His lungs ached as his chest heaved. Sweat poured from his forehead, and he blinked away the salty water that burned his eyes. He tasted blood. His nose was busted, but he had to think he looked better than the big man.
This would be something like the end of the first round of a boxing match between a couple of pugilists who had never heard of those Queensberry rules or whatever they were called. Both men sucked in oxygen, deeply, holding it, blowing it out of their mouths, staring at each other with pure hatred.
Blue barked encouragement.
Dooley straightened when the big man began walking toward him. Then he saw the man scramble and pick up that grubbing hoe.
This was Nebraska, and Dooley knew what a grubbing hoe could do to a person. He had heard a fellow over in North Platte some years back say that Wild Bill Hickok had not killed Dave McCanles at Rock Creek Station with a pistol. The man had even sworn that there never had been a McCanles gang and that Wild Bill had shot most of the people from ambush. He had said it was basically a fight over a strumpet, and the strumpet had picked up a grubbing hoe and finished off Dave McCanles.
Dooley dived to his left, catching another glimpse of poor Ole, and he landed short of the Smith & Wesson .32., but Blue was charging again, ducking underneath the swinging hoe, landing and tumbling in the dust. The man righted himself and brought up the hoe, prepared to swing it like an axe and cleave in Dooley’s head.
But the .32 was in Dooley’s hands by then, and he was ready. The rimfire pistol bucked, and Dooley’s mind flashed back to Cheyenne, Wyoming.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That night in Cheyenne was when his memory came back.
Saloons, gambling parlors, and brothels still crowded Fifteenth Street in the territorial capital. That’s the way things had always been—ever since the Union Pacific laid down its first iron rails and pitched its first tents—and that’s how things, everyone in Cheyenne said, would always be.
Fifteenth Street was crowded that night when Dooley rode from his hotel after supper to find a friendly game of poker. Every now and then, his head would ache from where the man had clobbered him in San Francisco and shortchanged his memory, but he knew one thing for certain about this here Dooley Monahan that he was supposed to be.
Dooley Monahan liked poker. He understood the game pretty well, and he didn’t even need to bury his nose in one of Hoyle’s books explaining all the rules and all the types of poker, and other games of chance played with fifty-two cards.
Dooley had outfitted himself since San Francisco. He carried a short-barreled Colt in .44-40 caliber—the same shells would also fit in his Winchester carbine—and had bought a fine new pair of boots in Boise, some good duds in Bozeman, Montana—gray-striped britches and a matching vest with a black string tie—and now wore a new blue silk shirt that he had bought in Cheyenne, along with a new gray hat with a pinched crown and satin headband. He had a stomach full of elk steak, beans, potatoes, and corn bread, with a slice of vinegar pie for dessert. He had capped off his supper with a snifter of brandy.
Now he had a mind for a relaxing night of cards.
The place he chose was Vanwy’s Gaming House. Stenciled in the big window facing Fifteenth Street, cursive letters proclaimed:
Honest Dealer
A Fair Chance
—Pretty Ladies—
Watch ’em Dance
That’s not why he chose Vanwy’s establishment. This was Saturday night in Cheyenne, and the only open spot he found anywhere on Fifteenth Street was at the rail in front of that gaming house. He squeezed between a sorrel and a dun, looped the reins over the rail, which he ducked underneath.
“I’ll be out in a jiffy,” he told General Grant. “With enough money to get us to Alaska.”
He stepped onto the boardwalk, put a hand on one of the batwing doors, and paused, turned back toward the bay gelding, and asked out loud. “Alaska?”
What did he mean by that?
A bald man with whiskey on his breath grunted angrily, and Dooley turned back toward the saloon, saw the bald man with whiskey on his breath, and stepped aside to let the man stagger out onto the boardwalk and weave his way toward oblivion.
Dooley pushed back his new gray hat and stepped through the batwing doors, stopping to take in the scene. It was crowded, and the spinning of roulette wheels and the rolling of dice on felt made him smile. Music pounded away from the corner, and he saw three girls, scantily dressed, doing the cancan. Glasses clinked, whiskey poured, and the place smelled of bourbon and cigars. He squeezed through a crowd of railroaders and made his way to the bar.
Luck was with him. Just when he reached the end, a woman led a cowboy away toward the stairs, and Dooley made his way to the opening before a man in a bowler hat could get there. The bartender, with a thick gray mustache, was already waiting.
“Whiskey,” Dooley said.
The bartender kept waiting.
Dooley pulled out a coin and slapped it on the bar.
The coin disappeared, a shot glass took its place, and a moment later amber liquid splashed into the container.
Dooley smiled and lifted the glass in a toast, but the bartender had already moved down to another customer. Dooley sipped the whiskey.
Eventually, he found his way to the poker layouts, but had to wait through one more whiskey and half a mug of beer before one of the games opened up. Dooley managed to find a seat between the house dealer and a woman in a red dress. A bearded cuss in buckskins, a stringy-haired man with a yellow brocade vest, and a man with a vaguely familiar face—appeared to be a cowpuncher—filled out the game.
The man in buckskins left after two more rounds, and no one took his place. Dooley took advantage of the break in action to ask the saloon girl—she had been one of those cancanning when he first entered this joint—for a new beer.
“If you gents, and you, Miss Stephenson, don’t mind,” the dealer said, “I’m going to take this moment to pee.”
The woman in red did not even blush.
“Good idea,” said the man with the stringy hair. “I’ll go fetch me another whiskey.”
The cowpuncher leaned over, crushed out his cigarette, and studied Dooley hard. “You look familiar.”
“So do you,” Dooley said.
“Ever worked in Arizona?” the cowhand asked.
“I don’t know,” Dooley said.
Which pretty much ended that conversation, and the woman in red stared at Dooley as if he were a simpleton.
“Got hit in the head,” Dooley told her.
She nodded as if she understood, waited for the dealer and the man with the stringy hair to return, before she rose, collected her chips and cash and the man in buckskins’ Crow scalp, and said, “I’m turning in, too, Dave. Nice game, boys. Good luck.”
A tiny man who spoke with a French accent replaced her seat. As soon as he sat, Frenchy said, “Perhaps the luck of this chair shall continue with me instead of Miss Stephenson.”
It didn’t. Luck moved to Dooley’s seat.
Two hours later, as the clock chimed midnight—early for Cheyenne’s gambling element—the familiar-looking cowboy took the jack of spades, stringy hair the three of spades, Frenchy the eight of clubs, Dooley the
eight of hearts, and the dealer the queen of spades.
The dealer bet five dollars. Everyone, even stringy hair with his lousy three, even Frenchy with his eight, even Dooley with an eight despite another eight already showing, saw the bet. At least nobody raised, although Dooley considered it. He had the ace of spades in the hole.
The game was five-card stud. “Manly poker,” Miss Stephenson had said. “For manly men. And a girl like me.”
The cowboy got the three of diamonds, which caused stringy hair to groan, and groan even more when his card turned out to be the four of spades. That told Dooley that stringy hair wasn’t going for a straight and maybe had a pair of threes. Frenchy got a king of spades. Dooley took the ace of diamonds, but his eyes and face revealed nothing. The dealer dealt himself the two of hearts, which made Dooley think that maybe Vanwy’s did offer honest poker.
Dooley bet ten dollars. The dealer, even though he was playing with Mr. Vanwy’s money, folded. The cowboy stayed in. So did the man with stringy hair, who maybe was looking at a straight. Frenchy looked again at his hole card and sighed as he pushed in a $10 gold piece.
The hand continued. The cowboy got a three, which gave him a pair. Stringy hair took a two of clubs—straight still possible, but no longer a flush— but Frenchy took the cowboy’s three—clubs—and Dooley landed the eight of clubs. Two pair. He didn’t think stringy hair was going for a straight—for he had made some noise when the cowboy had taken a three earlier in the game. All the threes were out, so the cowboy could not beat Dooley’s two pair. He didn’t know why Frenchy remained in the game.
One more round of cards.
The cowboy got the jack of diamonds. Which changed a few things in Dooley’s mind. If that familiar face had a jack in the hole, Dooley might be in trouble. Stringy hair landed the two of diamonds, which could also turn his game around if he had a two in the hole. Frenchy was dealt an absolutely worthless four of diamonds. He would stay in the game only if he were an utter fool. Dooley waited, reached for his beer as if he had no worries in the world, and swallowed as the dealer showed him the ace of clubs.
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