The Trail West

by William W. Johnstone

  Sweeney stopped in front of a dark building, which, by its scent and size, could only be the livery. Lost in his thoughts, Monahan stopped just in time to avoid riding right over the top of him.

  From behind, the girl said a cranky, “Hey!” She slid down, then looked back up at Monahan. “I’m gonna have me enough trouble tonight without you crashin’ me in the middle of the street!”

  “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he muttered as he stepped down off General Grant. He rubbed the gelding’s neck. “Sorry, big fella.”

  Sweeney dismounted and walked ahead a bit, peering into the building’s one visible window. “Don’t look like anybody’s to home.”

  “Well, best turn ’em out into the corral, then.” Monahan began to uncinch his saddle. He kept an eye on the girl, but it wasn’t necessary. She leaned back against the corral’s fence like she was nailed to it, which made him worry all the more about just what, exactly, they had brought her back to face.

  Once they had stripped the tack off their mounts, slung their saddles over the top rail, and collected their saddlebags, Sweeney spoke. “Well, I reckon gettin’ the gal home’s at the top of our list.”

  “Let’s think about that for a second there, Butch,” Monahan said.

  Sweeney cocked his brows.

  “We don’t even know where we’re takin’ her, first off. Second, it’s near ten at night, and her kin’s bound to be sleepin’. And third, I say we take her to the hotel and get her a room. On my nickel, boy, don’t be lookin’ so thunderstruck.”

  The girl smiled wide for the first time since their acquaintance, and Monahan started ahead before he realized that he didn’t have a clue where the hotel was. “Julia?”

  She ran the extra two steps to his side and grabbed his arm. “This way. “ She gave him a tug to the right.

  “Julia, does your Uncle Kirby know you’re out at all hours with these strangers?” the clerk asked, squinting at the two men across from him. He turned up the lamp a little and took a closer look at Sweeney. “Sorry, Butch. Didn’t recognize you. What you doin’ back in town so soon?”

  Sweeney smiled and turned the big book on the counter toward himself. He took the pen from its well and signed Butch Sweeney firmly and with a flourish. “Tryin’ to rent a bed with a roof over it, Abner.”

  He handed the pen to Monahan, who took it, dipped it in the well, and signed his name beneath Sweeney’s. In turn, he handed the pen to Julia.

  But the clerk snatched the pen from her hand. “She don’t need to sign. Not unless she’s aged a few years since I last saw her.”

  Monahan gave a quick nod. “Butch and me need a double, and a single for the girl.”

  “With a pass-through connect, right?”

  Monahan’s face scrunched up in offense. “You askin’ do I want a connecting door to Julia’s room?”

  The blanching clerk scuffled back and visually gulped.

  Monahan figured he must look more imposing than he felt. Either that, or the clerk was feeling guiltier about something than he was letting on. The more he thought about it, Monahan put his money on the latter. He shot a quick look in Sweeney’s direction, and read much the same thing on his face.

  He figured he could push the clerk for more details, but it was late and he was tired. He didn’t want to get into anything. Not at the moment, anyway. All he wanted—besides making sure the girl was tucked up safe and sound—was a soft bed . . . and to be left alone.

  As he was mulling things over, the clerk slid keys atop the desk and pushed them toward him. Monahan picked up the one marked 2A and asked, “Second floor?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the nervous answer.

  Monahan nodded in reply, then handed the key to the girl. As an afterthought, he gave her his sidearm, making certain the clerk saw the transfer. “You know how to use this?” At her slight nod, he gave further instructions. “We’ll be down to give you a chance at breakfast around 8:00, all right?”

  The girl smiled, her shoulders slack with relief. “Yes, sir, and yes, sir.” She gave a stronger nod of satisfaction. “See you fellers in the morning.”

  She looked at the clerk, who pointed toward the door beside the stairs. “To the left. Number’s on the door.”

  She nodded and headed to her room, leaving the three of them—two tired and one terrified—standing in the lobby staring at each other.

  “Where’s our room?” Sweeney asked, more to cut the tension than anything else.

  Monahan fingered the other key. “Upstairs, I reckon.”

  The desk clerk appeared to have been struck deaf and dumb, but mustered the strength to poke his thumb toward the stairs.

  Noticing the motion, Monahan muttered, “Yeah, upstairs.” Leaning over the counter he spoke in a lower tone. “The gal best be fit as a fiddle come mornin’, you got me, Abner?”

  The quivering desk clerk managed a “Yes, sir,” then leaned back against the wall and slowly slid downward until he came into contact with the floor.

  Monahan nodded curtly. “Night, then.” He followed Sweeney up the stairs.

  Outside town a couple of miles to the north, a wooden shack surrounded by smaller shacks and a lean-to sat along the dry, rocky creek bed. The usual soft scuttling of tiny animals moving across the forest floor had stilled, leaving the night quiet. No insect song came from the trees, no stomps or rustles, lows or whinnies wafted up from the barn. Only silence filled the air.

  The interior of the shack was dark, so dark the moon beamed like a searchlight as it shined through the small parlor window. Julia felt engulfed by the silence—as if it were a predator who had found its prey. Her.

  Not again.

  Then, as if somebody somewhere had thrown an enormous switch, noise and hubbub and cacophony came at her, flooding over her like a wall of thick mucus, engulfing her in its too-familiar stickiness and stench at the same time calming her with its familiarity.

  She heard a new sound.

  Someone was coming.

  She whimpered. Not again.

  Julia whirled toward the front door just as it burst inward and revealed—

  She woke abruptly. Stiff, sweating, and terrified, her scream was muffled by the pillow.

  Across town, Sheriff Milton J. Carmichael sat in the saloon, nursing a beer. It had been a long day. A long week, come to think about it. Making it longer was Kirby Smithers, who had come waltzing into the office to report his niece missing. It would have been nice if he’d bothered to report it the first day she was gone.

  That would have been Tuesday, Carmichael reckoned, taking another long draw on his beer. The day the posse finally made it out to the Morgan’s spread and found what those murderous Apache had left behind.

  His lips pursed with horror and distaste while he gave his head a slow shake. Foul things, Apache. The government ought to raise the premium on their scalps. He never should have come West. He should have listened to Martha and gone into business at her father’s hardware. He’d probably have at least four kids by now—maybe six! She had always looked like sound breeding stock.

  Had he listened to Martha, he’d probably be the sole proprietor of Gary, Indiana’s oldest and finest hardware, too.

  His thoughts continued in the dark vein. Some other feller had probably already stepped into his role. Some other feller had taken his place and was living his life. Some other feller was the Hardware King of Indiana.

  Well, God bless him, whoever he is. The thought was halfhearted.

  He brightened. Hope the poor sod is takin’ good care o’ Martha’s bunions. And he laughed out loud.

  “Somebody write a joke in the bottom of your beer mug?”

  Carmichael looked up to find Butch Sweeney standing beside him, and immediately frowned. “Ain’t you supposed to be someplace else? Like, somewhere far off?”

  Sweeney tipped his hat. Without expression, he said, “Thanks for the welcome. ’Preciate it.”

  Carmichael unceremoniously drained his beer and stood up,
which put his nose directly level with Sweeney’s armpit. He made a foul face. “You stink like a horse what’s rolled in the manure pile, Sweeney!”

  Sweeney, still expressionless, looked down at him. “Beg your pardon, Sheriff Carmichael?”

  Carmichael opened his mouth, but closed it without uttering a word. It was too late, he was too tired, and he plain just wasn’t up to it. He pushed past Sweeney and silently started the short walk toward home.

  Sweeney had waited until Monahan nodded off before he’d let his jumpy nerves take over and headed to the saloon. He watched the sheriff leave, then helped himself to the chair the man had just vacated. He signaled the barkeep for a whiskey. He figured to wash it down with a beer, which he ordered when the first drink was delivered.

  As the bartender clomped back toward the bar, Sweeney raised his glass. “To Iron Creek—the town I hoped I’d never have to see again.” He gulped down the shot and was immediately sorry. It went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t stop coughing. Tears came to his eyes and he bent at the waist, hands flat on the table, when somebody began to pound him on the back without mercy.

  “Hey!” he managed, still coughing. He tried speaking again. “Stop . . . it . . . dagnab . . . you!” The words came out separated by whoops and gasps for air. He whirled around.

  “Dagnab me?” Deborah laughed. “Who you been hangin’ ’round with, Big Butch?”

  He flushed and returned her grin, shrugging. “I’m awful damn glad to see you, Deborah.”

  “I was beginnin’ to think I’d have to get used to life without you.” She pursed her lips into a pout. “Sheriff Carmichael was just in here . . .” She twisted her head, looking for him. “Well, he was in here a minute ago. Anyhow, he said you rode off west with some feller they found out to the Morgans’ spread.” She wrapped her shoulders in her arms, pointing her index fingers out to the side. “Oh, those Apache! They’re so horrible!”

  With the sinking feeling he was about to be taken advantage of yet again, Sweeney pulled out the chair next to him. “Sit down, Deborah.”

  She grinned and quickly sat next to him. Without asking or looking, she raised an arm over her head and began to lazily circle her hand.

  Sweeney knew the drill. She would be served room temperature tea in a whiskey glass, for which he would be charged a premium whiskey price. He figured by the time he’d gotten that one puzzled out, he could’ve bought a whole damn tea plantation. He reached over, took hold of her arm, and pulled it back down to her side. “None of that, if you don’t mind. If I’m rememberin’ right, it was those weak tea whiskeys that got me in trouble in the first place.”

  She had the sense to look a little guilty, and let out a long breath before she said, “Yeah. I told you before, Butch, it was just that—”

  He held up his hands. “I know, Deb, I know.” He became aware of someone standing on the other side of him. He turned and discovered it was the bartender, with his beer in his hand. “That was fast, Emmitt.”

  The barkeep set down the beer glass. “Two bits.”

  “Oh, I been fine, too,” Sweeney said as he dug a hand into his pocket for change. He found the right coins and placed the money in Emmitt’s palm.

  Without any comment except a quick glance at his hand to make certain his money was all there, the barkeep left them.

  “Chatty as always, I see.” Sweeney took a long, grateful draw on his beer, then turned back to the girl, who was following Emmitt’s retreat with her eyes. To the side of her face, he said, “I see Emmitt’s still workin’ nights. Mordecai ain’t found nobody to replace him, yet?”

  Languidly, Deborah turned back toward him. “Didn’t know he was lookin’ to.”

  Well, she probably didn’t, now that he thought about it. She’d always been a little shy on brains. In fact, he was surprised she was still working at Clancy’s Bar.

  Sweeney had been away nearly a week and couldn’t believe Mordecai Clancy—that penny pinching son of a shanty Irishman who owned the place, and who had been the recipient of the sweat of Sweeney’s brow these past six months—hadn’t come up with an excuse yet!

  Some people, he thought, taking another pull on his beer.

  11

  On the trail leading to Iron Creek, the two Baylor brothers arose with the dawn. Dev stoked the fire, took a piss, and rooted through the saddlebags for breakfast before he woke Alf. Even then, he didn’t touch him. “Sun’s up. Rise and greet the day.”

  Alf came awake and gave him a good-natured grin—always Alf’s first lie of the day, Dev often thought—then stepped a few feet away from the fire.

  Thank God he’d picked the downhill side, Dev thought with a roll of his eyes. He set their bacon on the fire, then started the biscuits baking. He didn’t look up when Alf asked, “You makin’ coffee this mornin’, Dev?”

  Face twisting with aggravation, Dev replied, “I always do, don’t I, Alf?”

  A moment passed before Alf grudgingly allowed that he did. “Almost always.”

  Dev shot to his feet, shouting, “Jesus! One time! One lousy time in more ’n fifteen years on the trail together!” Briefly, Dev clamped his eyelids closed and sucked in a big breath of air. It helped—just enough. More calmly, he continued. “Eight years ago on the morning of March fourteenth, I didn’t make coffee because we didn’t have any coffee. Somebody lost it when he was fordin’ Arapaho Creek the night before. Remember?”

  Slowly, the veil seemed to lift from Alf’s eyes. Then, quite suddenly, he grinned. “That creek was cold, Dev!” His hands rose to grip his shoulders in the memory of it, and his feet danced a little jig.

  “Jason warned you,” Dev said.

  Alf nodded. “Spring runoff, he said. There was chunks o’ ice in that creek!”

  “And one big chunk o’ you. And one little chunk of our total coffee fixin’s.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right, Dev. And you ain’t let me carry it since. Ain’t let me carry nothin’ important.”

  “That’s right, Alf.” Dev turned his attention to the fire, gave it a stir, and added a few more twigs.

  “Coffee’s real important, ain’t it, Dev?”

  “Real important.”

  The bacon was cooking up fine. Carefully, Dev cracked open and added in the bird’s eggs they’d found the day before.. “We’re in luck. The mama just laid ’em, fresh.” There was nothing he hated more than having his mouth all set for a clear, clean egg, then cracking it open to find nothing but a ready-to-hatch chick. He didn’t see any miracle in it, or hold any pity for the dazed and motherless chick, which was more than often thoughtlessly cast aside.

  “When you figger we’ll catch ’em up?” Alf asked. At least he’d changed the subject.

  Dev shrugged. “When we do, I reckon.” He kept his eyes focused on the skillet.

  Fortunately, it was enough of an answer to suit Alf, who simply stuck his empty plate forward. “Them eggs ready, Dev?”

  Monahan woke slightly after nine o’clock—very late for him—figuring he could cut himself a little slack. After all, the last few days had been bone battering. He took his time performing the usual stomping and rubbing of his broken parts, amazed Sweeney slept clean through it. By the time he made his exit with Blue the sun was up so high in the cloudless sky it nearly blinded him.

  There weren’t many people out and about, so nobody paid any attention when he said, “I’m goin’ to the livery.” He started toward the small corral across the road, then thought better of it and turned around to give instructions to Blue. “You find Julia, you best bring her to me, you hear?”

  The dog let out a low bark in agreement.

  Satisfied, Monahan turned back in the direction of the livery. From in front of the hotel, he could see several horses in the corral. General Grant trotted to the fence and whinnied.

  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he muttered as he gained the paddock fence.

  General Grant waited on the other side of the boards, his neck stretched over the
top rail as far as it would go. His upper lip twitched out a few inches farther. Monahan chuckled under his breath as he reached the old gelding and scratched at the few scattered white hairs on his forehead, imitating a star.

  “All right, old son,” he muttered, digging into a hip pocket. He thought he had a lemon drop somewhere in there.

  He did find one, and managed to slip it between General Grant’s greedy choppers before the horse could swallow his sleeve’s frayed cuff. The horse’s attention diverted, he made a quick beeline for the office. But before he could grab the latch, let alone open the door, it swung open under the power of a gangly, teenaged, dark-headed boy. Part Indian, Monahan thought.

  The boy spoke. “Thought I heard a little ruckus out here.” He stuck out a wide, bony hand. “Tommy Hawk’s the name. I’m in charge whenever Mr. Pearl ain’t around, that bein’ most of the time. And you’re . . . ?”

  “Dooley Monahan.” He took the boy’s hand and gave it a shake. “We come in late last night, and there weren’t nobody here, so we left the horses—”

  “In the corral.” Tommy Hawk nodded and grinned. “Figured they had to belong to somebody.” He poked a thumb back over his shoulder, toward the interior of the livery. “Brought your saddles inside this mornin’. Ain’t safe to just leave ’em out like that, at least, not ’round here.”

  Monahan nodded. He’d met the law and was pretty sure the kid knew what he was talking about. He dug in his pocket for his wallet. It slid easily from its hiding place—too easily—indicating it wasn’t exactly fat with money. “What do we owe you so far?”

  The boy scratched his head. “Well, you wanna just leave ’em out in the stock pen, or you figurin’ on a roof over their heads?”

  “Got a good cross breeze?”

  “Each stall’s got its own winder!” the kid replied huffily.

  “Don’t get your dander up. Just askin’. How much for that, with a turnout two or three times a day? And water and feed.”