Monahan's Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  He did not have time to look, because sound carried far in this country, and this high. Below, he heard the reports of gunfire. Somebody, he knew, had launched an assault on Miss Sabrina Granby and the people of Slim Pickings, Wyoming Territory.

  Dooley ran.

  About fifty yards downhill, he realized he had left the Colt in the dirt between two rocks, but he could not turn back for that weapon now. He didn’t need to, for the Winchester remained in the scabbard with the saddle on General Grant. He would have to make that rifle do, and, well, from the roar coming from below, a repeating rifle would be more useful than a six-shooter.

  He forgot about that shortness of breath, the pain from the machete cut, the sweat and aching muscles in his legs. Dooley ran, using his arms to push away the briars and low branches, watching the ground to make sure he did not step on some stone, trip over a log or boulder, or step into a hole and snap his ankle.

  The thick woods turned darker, despite the midafternoon, and Dooley knew the storm clouds were moving faster than he had expected. He no longer heard gunshots below, but he could not slow down. Miss Sabrina was down there. So was Blue. And, well, those other folks from Cincinnati, too.

  His heart pounded, and the wind, now turning cool, made the sweat on his body feel like ice. His throat and mouth begged for water, but Dooley kept pushing himself, and as he leaped over a boulder and turned a corner, he saw General Grant, ears alert, turning his beautiful head to find Dooley, the General just standing there in pure contentment.

  Slowing, Dooley came to his horse and practically collapsed against the saddle. The gelding snorted, and Dooley took just a moment to catch his breath before he moved behind the horse, keeping his hand on the bay so General Grant wouldn’t kick him in the thigh. When he was on the other side of the horse, he stared at the scabbard.

  He held his breath.

  The scabbard was empty.

  “Hello, Dooley,” a voice called from the trees.

  Dooley turned around slowly, keeping his hands wide, away from the empty holster on his right hip, away from his left hip. He had recognized the voice.

  Still pale as death, Doc Watson stood, not holding a gun in his hand, but holding Mr. McCreery upright, using the Cincinnatian as a shield for some strange reason, one arm around the man’s waist, the other on top of the man’s hatless head.

  Mr. McCreery did not look too good, Dooley thought, although sweat rolled into his eyes, burning them, and blurring Dooley’s vision.

  “Here,” Doc Watson said. “Catch.”

  The killer lifted Mr. McCreery’s head clean off his shoulders, and that’s when Dooley saw all the blood, and Doc Watson pitched the head straight at Dooley, those eyes still open, the mouth locked in some eternal, silent scream.

  Which is what Dooley Monahan did. He screamed as he instinctively caught the head, and threw it away, slamming against the horse, and falling to the ground. General Grant stepped this way and that, but did not pull away from the tree, or step on Dooley, who sat up, out of breath, wiping his hands that had touched the head of a man decapitated by the worst killer on the frontier, wiping them furiously on the dirt and leaves and pine needles below.

  “You sick son of a—” Dooley did not finish, because Doc Watson pointed the barrel of his six-shooter about an inch from Dooley’s nose.

  “Insults I don’t abide,” Watson said, his voice cold and hard. “Get up. Get up and I won’t tell anyone that you screamed like a girl.”

  Dooley fumed, but obeyed. Just because he had screamed did not make him yellow. It was instinct. Anyone, even Frank Handley, Dooley figured, would have screamed if he had seen a head flying straight at him like a crude sort of ball, a ball with eyes open and mouth open and blood dried on the lips and chin and beard stubble.

  “Been a while, Dooley.” The gun pressed hard into Dooley’s spine, forcing him to step forward. “Let’s go down to Slim Pickin’s, pard. There’s some folks down yonder who wants to meet you.”

  They stopped at the corral as Doc Watson put General Grant, whom he had pulled down the trail, in with the other horses. Dooley looked at the mounts, surprised at the number. Four. Only four horses. He refused to get his hopes up, though. There had to be more than four men. When he and Hubert Dobbs had left the gang back in Ogallala, there had been better than a dozen.

  His heart lifted when they reached the settlement, not that it was a settlement, actually, and he saw Miss Sabrina kneeling by the fire, frying up bacon and boiling coffee, compliments of the Dobbs-Handley Gang.

  His heart sank, however, when Zerelda Dobbs stepped through the blanket-door of the cabin. She grinned.

  “Dooley Monahan, as I live and breathe, it’s good to see you, love.” She said something else, but thunder drowned out the words. “Get the others out here, Frank.”

  As Zerelda Dobbs walked over to the cookfire, Dooley saw Frank Handley walk out of the cabin, pulling long-boned, unwashed Logan Kingsbury with him and throwing him toward the trash pile. The Widow Kingsbury and Mr. Abercrombie followed, but neither was pulled nor thrown, but merely lined up against the log wall. One of the outlaws, a thin man with a long mustache and underlip beard, stepped out, and trained a shotgun on the Widow and Mr. Abercrombie. If Dooley remembered right, his name was Clifton.

  Inside the cabin, came the constant barking of Blue.

  “You tied that dog up good, didn’t you?” Handley asked.

  “Yeah,” Clifton, or whatever his name was, answered.

  “Where’d you find him?” Frank Handley turned the conversation to Doc Watson, about Dooley Monahan.

  Doc Watson gave a vague wave of his pistol. “Little trail heads up that way. I found his horse. Waited for him to come down.”

  “And the other one?” Handley looked at Abercrombie. “What did you say his name was?”

  “Hentig.” Abercrombie’s words came out in a hoarse whisper.

  “Didn’t see him.”

  Inside, Blue kept on barking.

  “Where’s . . . Mr. . . . McCreery?” Abercrombie managed.

  Doc Watson laughed. “He lost his head.”

  That made Dooley’s stomach sink behind his intestines.

  “Hentig?” Frank Handley directed his question at Dooley. “You and him found this ol’ boy’s mine, eh?” He pointed the barrel of his gun at Logan Kingsbury. “Double-crossing your pards. I can understand that.”

  Dooley was looking at Logan Kingsbury, seeing the anger in that crazy dude’s eyes. He decided that he had better tell the truth. At least that would buy some time, maybe, keep him alive a little longer.

  Blue kept barking, and Frank Handley yelled, “Clifton, go inside and kill that yapping cur.”

  “Blue!” Dooley yelled. “Quiet!”

  The dog obeyed, and Dooley felt the relief as Frank Handley grinned. “Never mind, Clifton. Don’t kill the dog, as long as Moneymans here tells us what we want to hear.”

  After drawing a deep breath, holding it a moment before exhaling, Dooley sighed. “I don’t know where that mine is. Hentig found it. I was just heading up the trail to get above the timberline, see if I could spot whoever it was raising dust.”

  “That’d be us,” Clifton said.

  “Shut up,” Zerelda Dobbs snapped.

  “Hentig jumped me. He said he had found the mine. Fool tried to kill me.”

  “And you killed him,” Zerelda said. “Like you done my pa. Tell me, Doomey, was there a reward on this Hentig feller?”

  “I didn’t kill Hentig,” Dooley said. “He fell off the edge. That killed him. Or if it somehow didn’t, the boulder that rolled on top of him killed him.”

  “But you did kill my pa,” Zerelda said.

  “Well, he was trying to kill me.”

  Zerelda laughed. “That’d be Pa, all right, the connivin’ little horse’s arse.”

  Frank Handley moved to the trash heap, jerked Logan Kingsbury to his feet, and shoved him in front of the cabin.

  “All right, Kingsbury, lo
oks like you’re the only one who knows where that mine is. Doc, put that gun of yourn again’ the Widder’s temple.” After Doc Watson obeyed, Handley grinned. “You tell us what we want to know,” he said, his voice as icy as the wind now blowing. “Or we blow your aunt’s head clean off.”

  “Could I cut off her head, Frank?” Doc Watson asked.

  “No, just shoot her . . . unless the boy tells us what we wants to hear.”

  “He won’t do it,” the Widow said. “For I’m not his aunt. He’s not any kin of mine.”

  Dooley stared. So did Miss Sabrina, letting the coffee and bacon burn.

  Logan Kingsbury swallowed, and his face underneath the dirt paled.

  “You called me ‘Aunt,’” The Widow told the impostor. “My nephew called me ‘Auntie,’ and my nephew was nowhere near as tall as you are, nor as ugly and inconsiderate. You’re Martin Dansforth, the army deserter. You killed my darling Logan.”

  Handley looked at the Widow, and at Logan Kingsbury, but did not seem convinced. Maybe he thought the Widow was a good poker player.

  “Really. I don’t think so, lady. Why’d you come up here if you knowed this filthy cur kilt yer nephew?”

  “Gold,” the Widow replied instantly.

  That didn’t convince Handley, either. “No. Yer lyin’, ma’am. All right, what if I tell Doc Watson to kill this here . . . ahem . . . impostor? What if I said, Doc, take that gun away and blow this filthy dog to hell?” Doc Watson removed the pistol from the Widow’s temple and pointed it at the shivering Logan Kingsbury/Martin Dansforth scoundrel. “What would you say then, Widder?”

  “I’d say Blow that man to hell,” the Widow said calmly. “He means nothing to—”

  The gun roared, and Martin Dansforth, if he wasn’t really Logan Kingsbury, went flying into the cookfire, ruining the breakfast, overturning the coffee, and sending Miss Sabrina Granby screaming and running into Dooley’s arms.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “You idiot!” Frank Handley roared.

  “She told me to kill him,” Doc Watson whined.

  Blue started barking again inside the cabin until Dooley yelled for him to be quiet, that he was all right, that nothing was wrong—when, in fact, nothing was right. To his relief, Blue once again obeyed. The barks ceased, but Dooley could hear every now and then the whimpering of the dog above the wind, the rustling of the trees, and Frank Handley’s plentiful curses.

  “She’s not bossin’ this outfit, Doc!” Frank Handley kept fuming.

  Zerelda Dobbs sniggered as Frank Handley slammed his revolver into his holster and started kicking up dirt, pinecones, and stones across the camp, complaining that of all the men he had lost in Julesburg, why in heaven’s name could not Doc Watson have been among them?

  That stopped Dooley. He looked at the chastised Doc Watson, at the giggling Zerelda Dobbs, and at the frowning Clifton, while Frank Handley began stringing together profanity and blasphemy in everybody’s direction. Dooley had been scouting for the rest of the gang, but now . . . maybe this was all that was left of the once-mighty Dobbs-Handley Gang. Maybe they had tried to sack Julesburg only to find the citizens, after so much violence and outlawry, had been pushed to the point of fighting back. He knew better than to ask Frank Handley what had happened in Julesburg, however.

  “He knew where the cave was, you idiot!” Handley roared. “Now what do we do?”

  “Oh . . .” Zerelda Dobbs paused just long enough to let the thunder stop rolling. “I imagine Dooley, my love, could find it fer us. Couldn’t ya, sweetheart?”

  “I can try,” Dooley said without pause. It might keep him, and the others, alive. “I’ll take you all up there. You just let these three folks go.”

  “No, no, no, love, that ain’t how we’s gonna do it.” She walked to Dooley, and pulled Miss Sabrina away. “She comes with us. Clifton, you stay here and keep an eye on that widder woman and that fool. Frank, Doc, let’s go find that gold.”

  “And when we’ve found it?” Doc asked.

  “Well, we’ll be pards. Share and share alike. Right?”

  The outlaws laughed. Dooley knew that once they found the mine, the Cincinnatians and Dooley Monahan would be killed. Maybe decapitated.

  * * *

  Once again, Dooley climbed up that trail, past the corral with the five horses, over the rocks, between the trees, underneath the low branches. Up, and up, and up, and now they had to deal with the whipping wind, and soon, a drizzling rain, with the skies blackened by ominous thunderheads.

  Cold, misting rain covered Dooley’s face when he cleared the tree line, and he stopped to lean against a black granite triangle to catch his breath. The others came, too, likewise panting, and lightning flashed overhead.

  “Well!” Frank Handley shouted over the roar of wind.

  Dooley avoided looking at the rocks where he knew his Colt remained. Instead he turned, and pointed up the slick granite. “My guess would be up there. To that flat little spot. We can crawl along that, see if we find any caves.”

  “Huh?” Doc Watson yelled.

  Dooley repeated his thoughts, louder.

  The outlaws looked at one another, then at Zerelda Dobbs.

  “Y’all take him with ya!” she bellowed. “I’ll stay down here with Miss Pretty Cakes. And I’ll kill her if she tries somethin’ foolish.”

  “We’ll do the same with Mr. Monograms!” Doc Watson laughed.

  Lightning cut through the sky again, followed almost instantly by a roar of thunder, and Frank Handley motioned with his revolver. Dooley began climbing.

  His boots slipped three times, and once he slid all the way until he was staring at Doc Watson’s revolver. The rain turned from mist to drizzle, and Dooley regained the ground he had lost. When he reached the flat, he rolled onto his back and sucked in thin air and cold rain, and waited for the two outlaws to join him.

  “Which way?” Frank Handley bellowed when he made it to the top.

  Dooley rolled over, came to his feet, and nodded. They moved . . . into the fierce wind and rain . . . walking, at first, until they had to crawl on their hands and knees.

  They came to one crack in the face of the hill, and Doc Watson scrambled up without even being asked, peered inside, shook his head, and slid back down. Dooley crawled on.

  He crawled farther until he saw a deeper blackness just ten or twelve yards up. He never would have even noticed it had not he heard a crash to see two long logs, secured together with lariat and rawhide, spinning and then toppling in the wind. They had been leaning against what appeared to be a cave’s entrance.

  Hentig’s words came back to him, and he came up, pointing. “That’s it. That’s got to be it.”

  Handley and Watson stared at each other, then at the opening, and looked again at Dooley.

  “A marmot, an eagle, nothing tied those two logs together. That was a sign! A sign by Logan King-, I mean, Martin Dansforth.”

  Dooley was already climbing, trying not to be blown down by the wind, and he stepped just inside the opening. It was a cave, deep and long and dark, and the blowing rounds and dark clouds did not help. Inside, it was pitch-black.

  When the outlaws reached the opening, they, too, paused. They looked at Dooley.

  “I can’t see a damned thing in there!” Handley shouted.

  “Can you see this?” Dooley held out the glittering nugget he had found on this side of the cavern.

  “Hentig said there were torches just past the entrance,” Dooley lied. “On the right.”

  “You stay here, Monamang!” Doc Watson said, turning to Handley to explain, “If he disappears in that black, I’d never find him to cut off his head.”

  “Right!”

  Excited, fueled by greed, Frank Handley and Doc Watson stepped into the blackness, and disappeared.

  Dooley caught only a bit of their screams, and braced himself against the granite, listening. Those two poles strung together had been the bridge Hentig had mentioned. Not a bridge over a creek, a
s Dooley had suspected at first, but over a chasm. Dooley waited another minute, before sliding down the granite to the flat. He hurried his way back. The rain became a torrent now, and Dooley was soaked to the bone. Shivering, he moved on, closer to Miss Sabrina, closer to Zerelda Dobbs.

  When he saw the outline of the granite triangle, Dooley fell to his knees. He crawled, inching his way toward the rocks, hardly breathing, barely moving, just getting wetter and wetter and colder and colder. His hand disappeared inside the rocks, and he felt the barrel of his Colt.

  “Hey, love!”

  Even with the roar of wind and rain, Dooley heard Zerelda Dobbs. He turned, finding her about thirty yards up the slope, holding a Henry rifle.

  “I knew you’d take care of my pards, Doosey!” she shouted. “Now I reckon all that gold’s fer my ownself!”

  That’s when the lightning struck.

  It’s also when Dooley let go of his metal Colt.

  The flash blinded him, and he could feel the heat, but no electricity reached him. When he could see clearly, all he saw was a melting mess, that once had been Zerelda Dobbs, rolling down the hill. Dooley sucked in more air, picked up the pistol, and ran to the triangle, where he saw Miss Sabrina Granby cowering. He took her hand without slowing down, and did not stop until they were deeper in the trees.

  “Did . . . ?” Miss Sabrina gasped. “Did you see that?”

  “Yeah,” Dooley said. “Zee wasn’t quicker than lightning after all.”

  “But . . .”

  “Come on,” Dooley said. “We’ve still got Clifton to worry about.”

  But, it turned out, they didn’t.

  * * *

  “When that storm come up strong, he just left us,” the Widow said. “Got his horse, and rode out. Never seen a man so chicken-livered of a little thunderstorm.”

  “Too bad, Dooley,” Mr. Abercrombie said. “You’ll never find the bodies of Handley or Watson, and no one can recognize what’s left of Miss Dobbs. But I guess you can haul in Mr. Dansforth’s remains and claim his reward.”

  “I’m no bounty hunter,” Dooley said. He flipped the glittering stone, caught it, and smiled. “We have enough horses to ride off. Back to Fetterman City.”