But it was just as well that the outlaw hadn’t chosen a more populated spot, with more possibilities for witnesses. Fighting it out to the end might as well happen in Heber’s Kiss, where there would be few people to laugh at Monahan if he failed, and no one to lock him up if he came out the winner . . . especially since he didn’t plan to give the other man a fair chance. No fairer than he’d already received at Vince George’s hands, anyway. He had Sweeney and the dog, but didn’t suppose the two of them together could make up for a sidekick chosen from any one of Monty’s Raiders, especially Red Usher.
As he plodded along, Monahan could hear the outlaw’s silly, girlish titter and remembered the rifle butt cracking his skull for the third time. It was a highly unpleasant sound, that titter—forever after associated with crippling pain—and it marked the beginning of Monahan’s unraveling patchwork of a life.
Although Red hadn’t struck the first blow or the hardest—those had been dealt by Vince—he had struck the last, and it was the one that had sent the young Dooley tumbling down the lifelong maze he had come to know—and forget, and remember, and forget again—as his existence on earth. A life with no past, no future, only a present; a life without a woman or children or grandchildren; a life without stability, without a place to call home, with no history, good or ill, and a life forever on the scout. He realized for the first time, it was what those idiot boys had clubbed him toward and what they had made him into.
He was going to have his vengeance, by God. He was going to make Vince sorry he’d ever heard of Dooley Monahan.
And so, he found himself smiling as he called a temporary halt. The horses needed rest and water, and he decided he’d like to sit on something that wasn’t moving. He dismounted, watered the General and Blue, then sat down in the center of that wide, rutted excuse for a road and had himself a long drink of cool water. Combined with the certainty of his plan and the big blue dog climbing into his lap, it was the best water he’d tasted since Hector was a pup.
Julia sat down in the middle of the road, too, but it was getting old. She wondered what on earth Monahan was smiling about? She shot Sweeney a questioning look, but his only response was to wiggle his eyebrows at her. She decided she would never, not so long as she lived, understand the male of the species. If she asked a boy under the age of twelve a question, he’d say something mean or hit her and run away. Anyone over that age would pretend she was joking or he was joking or somebody, somewhere, was joking. Mostly she figured to never expect a straight answer at all.
Blue whined, and Monahan held the bowl up for him, never once adjusting the smile on his face. Julia watched, remembering the dog being in town a couple of times in the past. She remembered Sheriff Carmichael back in Iron Creek had hated him. Her uncle, along with most of the shopkeepers in town, hadn’t liked the dog much either.
She wondered why. He seemed awful sweet, all curled up on Monahan’s lap, or at least as much of him as would fit. His nose was pointed straight up in the air so Monahan could keep scratching his throat up and down, up and down. Blue made funny little chirps that started out high-pitched, then wound down maybe three octaves and ended in exceedingly self-satisfied, happy, low groans. She thought of them as “yummy” sounds.
Sweeney had watered his horse and was sitting with Monahan and Julia, but kept quiet, not paying much attention to either. He was getting tired of being Monahan’s toady, tired of doing everything Monahan’s way. He had wanted to ride with the famous Dooley Monahan because he’d thought the old cowboy would have some magical information to share, some sort of mystique that would rub off on him. So far, the only thing that had rubbed off was dog hair.
Well, there was the Vince George character to consider. ’Course, he dated from way back in Dooley’s life. He was likely a half-dead old cripple, plagued by rheumatism, arthritis, and a lifelong case of worms! And the scabies! And those dementia trembler things, from years of living inside a whiskey bottle.
The longer Sweeney thought on it, the worse candidate for a gunfight Vince George became. In fact, it didn’t take long for him to reduce the outlaw to an incoherent, syphilitic, pustule-covered, moronic invalid who no longer knew which end of a gun the bullet came out.
But, then again . . .
Sweeney shook his head and mumbled, “Don’t think about it. Thinking only brings trouble.” A glance at Monahan showed he was on his feet and getting ready to mount up. Julia was just getting to her feet, so Sweeney did, too. He decided not to say anything, not yet. He’d ride to Heber’s Kiss and take a look at the Vince George fellow, and when he turned out to be a silly old man and nothing more than a monster under the bed built solely from Monahan’s faulty memory, Sweeney would tip his hat, say good-bye, and go on alone.
That was fair, wasn’t it?
He’d wanted some Dooley Monahan stories, and thought he had most of the tale. There was no more Dooley Monahan could teach or tell him.
Julia said something to him, he ignored her, deciding he no longer had to be nice. Once they got to Heber’s Kiss, he’d cut them both loose, anyway.
Silently, he tightened his horse’s girth strap. The road ahead looked just like the road behind—deserted and desolate, a land only the devil could love.
Two days later, they reached the Colorado River and turned south, following along its eastern bank. They stopped a few hours in Yuma, which wasn’t long enough for Sweeney, but far too long a stay for Monahan, considering the territorial prison was there. Julia seemed happy to take in the sights, such as they were, and to find a store that sold lemon drops.
She bought a huge bag of them—it filled up half of one of her saddlebags—and spent the whole of that day sucking away at the candy. As they left town, she offered them to Monahan and Sweeney. The young cowboy took her up on it and helped himself to a handful, the old man turned her down, though he pointed out that Blue might like one, just for the sugar in it. And danged if she didn’t unwrap one and toss it to him. He crunched it up then and there, swallowed it down, and begged her for another!
Monahan had never heard of a dog liking lemons—not fresh ones or lemonade or lemon candy or even lemon pie—and it sorely confused him. Since that state of mind was nothing new for him, neither of his companions paid it much heed. He had been teasing Julia about the candy, but maybe he’d been right without knowing it. Maybe dogs did like lemons in any form.
That would sure be a new one—him being right, by accident. Only a few days ago, he couldn’t have been correct on purpose for love nor money.
And frankly, his old head was too full of Heber’s Kiss and Vince George to dwell on much of anything else. He wondered how the years had treated Vince. Badly, he hoped. It’d be a lot easier for him to kill a man who only had one arm or one leg.
He’d never hoped for anybody to be blind in both eyes with such committed vigor.
They made camp along the banks of the river before the sun set. They hadn’t seen a soul since they left Yuma, although Julia had seen something in the distance that might have been a building. It was hard to tell, what with the desert heat playing games with their eyes and all. But still, she had heeded Monahan’s warnings. “Watch for Apache signs,” he had said. “And keep your eyes and ears open, both of you.”
Of course, Sweeney hadn’t heeded him. He hadn’t been even slightly interesting let alone entertaining since that business with Robbie and the dog back at Mae and Bob’s.
Julia reached over and put her hand on Blue’s back. He was stretched out, flat as a frog, between her and Monahan in the gloom. He turned his head toward her and threw her his old Blue dog smile. At least, she was pretty certain it was a smile. She was convinced that if Blue could laugh, he’d be laughing to beat the band all day long. That was what kind of traveling companion he was!
He was a sight better than the two men, of late. Monahan had been pretty much silent for the whole day. He hadn’t flinched when they rode past the prison in Yuma, although he’d kept his head low . . . and he hadn
’t argued with her when she asked to stop for candy. Actually, it was kind of a shame he hadn’t, because she’d had her reasons already figured out in her head and ready for spewing why she should be allowed to do anything she dang well pleased. Practically the only thing he’d said all day was to warn them about Apache, and she hadn’t seen one sign of them, not one!
It sort of ruined a person’s faith in their Beware the Heathen Horde fantasy. She decided she’d never believe another dime novel again. Why, for the whole time she’d been in the Arizona Territory, she’d never seen an Indian of any sort! Not an Apache, not a Yuma, not a Navajo, not any of them. Well, except maybe for that boy who worked at the Iron Creek livery. Tommy something or other.
Monahan tapped her on the arm. “Biscuits?” He was putting clumps of dough into a skillet for baking.
She nodded enthusiastically. Although Mae’s food had been good, Julia enjoyed his just as much, if the truth be told, and his sourdough biscuits best of all.
Next to her, he set the lid on the biscuit’s skillet, then pulled out a large pot and began pulling the last of the remaining vegetables from Mae’s sack of victuals.
“Stew?” she asked.
Monahan nodded. “Yeah.”
Hoping to get a conversation—any conversation—started, she asked, “What kind?”
“Vegetable, unless you got some desert quail or pork chops hid in your saddlebags.”
She shrugged. “’Fraid not.”
He grinned. “Didn’t think so.”
She waited a couple of minutes, then said, “Don’t you wanna have a conversation?”
He gave her a funny look, like she was crazy.
“Oh, never mind!” She flopped down flat on the ground next to the dog. At least, he was glad to see her, and wiggled his hind end in welcome.
She put her arm around him and softly said, “Won’t they talk to you, neither?”
In reply, he slung his muzzle toward her and licked her across the nose.
She sputtered, then giggled. “Guess that means yes.”
“What’re you two talkin’ about?” Monahan’s voice surprised her. She’d thought he wasn’t interested.
She rolled onto her side. “We were just sayin’ as how you ’n’ Butch are keepin’ your own company of late, and got no time for girls or dogs.”
“That’s not true, is it, Butch?”
Sweeney looked up, startled by the mention of his name. “Huh?”
Monahan scratched his ear, then looked down at Julia. “Well, mayhap it is.”
While she smiled up at him Sweeney said, “What, Dooley?”
Monahan gave Julia a wink, covered his mouth to hide a chuckle, then said, “Sorry, boy. It was nothin’.”
Unable to keep the tickle out of her voice, Julia said softly, “Dooley, you’re a bad man. Very bad.”
Monahan sat back and dangled his wrists over his knees. “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded his head in agreement. “I sure enough am.”
She allowed herself a soft laugh, and then followed his gaze off into the distance. “What you see out there? Apache?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Nothin’ like.”
“Then what?”
“Nothin’ at all. Just an old man’s past, lookin’ toward his future.”
Julia was confused and said so.
Monahan tried to put her mind at ease. “Honey, my head’s so fuzzy and disjointed . . . If you’re smart, you won’t listen to a dang thing I say.”
“Okay.” She rested her head in her hands. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was all fuzz-brained. Maybe they’d finally get down to Heber’s Kiss and that Vince feller would kill him, and that would be the end of it. But that made her sad, about as sad as anything she could think of. The old cowboy had saved her—from the desert, and then from her previous caretaker—and she figured she kind of owed him.
Julia stretched out and heaved a sigh.
Beside her, Monahan continued staring blankly out over the desert. There was nothing to see but distant hills picking up the last weak rays of the setting sun and the first feeble rays of the crescent moon just beginning to rise. He wondered about old Vince and Heber’s Kiss. Monahan shook his head. He didn’t know the name Heber except from the Book of Mormon somebody had thrust on him in prison—that was a part of his life he’d like to forget, permanently!—but he couldn’t think why anyone would name a whole town after the man or his kiss in particular. Danged if he could even remember if Heber had kissed anybody.
19
Not far from where Monahan and his companions sat near their pot of simmering stew, Vincent George sat alone in the main room of his new bar. Well, new to him, anyway. There were no customers. There were never any customers. Heber’s Kiss was an Arizona town with two boots dangling over the edge of a grave.
Sean Jacoby, former owner of Jacoby’s Saloon, had sworn to him the saloon was a cash cow. When Vince pointed out he hadn’t seen a customer since he rode into “town” the day before, Jacoby had insisted the owlhoot had just come on an off day. Customers were thick as thieves in Heber’s Kiss, Jacoby swore. Folks in dire need of drink rode in day and night. The only place of business that could supply their demand and quench their thirst was his saloon!
Well, Vince had taken his word—like a blamed idiot—and he’d been sitting there day and night since Jacoby died, but he hadn’t seen one lousy soul, thirsty or otherwise. He wished he’d plugged Jacoby instead of letting him die naturally. For sure, he wished he hadn’t witnessed that paper for him, which had been Jacoby’s will, such as it was, naming Vince the sole beneficiary. Of course there was no lawyer in town to untangle the mess. Not that Vince had ever had much faith in the law.
The whole deal confused him so badly he’d hung around for a while, trying to get it straight in his head . . . and to see if anybody showed up.
Nobody had. And so Vince George had decided to take his leave of Heber’s Kiss, Arizona Territory, in general, and Jacoby’s Saloon in particular. He’d spent one day rummaging through Jacoby’s victuals and another trying to scare up some game.
Jacoby had owned a donkey or a burro or something, and he’d figured to take that along, too. He might get ten bucks for it in a town like Tucson, if he ended up going that way. On the other hand, he could always turn it loose, or butcher it if worse came to worse.
George poured himself a drink. That was one thing there hadn’t been a shortage of in Heber’s Kiss—liquor. For a man who’d claimed to be doing such a stellar business, old Jacoby certainly had a monstrous backlog of stock. There were cases of it, and not just the bad stuff, either!
At that moment, Vince decided he was riding out in the morning and definitely taking the mule, if only to haul its weight in booze. He poured out another drink, thinking of the man-high piles of cases in the back room, and tossed it back.
A few miles north, Julia and Sweeney had finally gone to sleep, but Monahan sat up and smoked for a time, thinking his next actions would shape the whole of his future. Surely, he had come to similar junctures before, but he couldn’t remember them. The ten years Buckshot Bob Hoskins had kept for him were already slipping away. He could feel the tides that ebbed and flowed in his mind sweeping them from the trembling sands of his memory.
He had known Bob from . . . prison, that was it. But which one? And why had he been in prison, anyway? He took a deep drag on his smoke. Damned if he could remember!
Monahan took another deep drag and concentrated on prison. He managed to dredge up a tiny snatch of a mental picture. He’d sat at night beside a feeble fire, manacles on his wrists, wishing he had some food or at least a smoke. Other men were there—live men, dead men, sick men, injured men.
Injured men . . . was it wartime? He concentrated harder on the mental picture, trying to see his sleeves to find a trace of a uniform, blue or gray, but couldn’t find one. He could see only muddy rags like those worn by the few men standing in the murky, misty background.
He took a last drag on his smoke
and stubbed it out on a rock beside him. Stretching out, he decided to join Sweeney and Julia in comfortable slumber. He lay down in his spot beside the fire with the nagging half memory of those poor men in the mist, swathed in rags, and so lost.
Morning broke, and Monahan was up with the sun. By the time Julia and Sweeney woke, he had finished giving General Grant the grooming of a lifetime. The horse had fallen asleep twice, and threatened to doze off again. Stroking the General’s low-hanging neck, he ruffled the precisely combed mane with his fingers.
“When do we leave?” asked a soft, female voice from behind him.
He turned toward the source. She was familiar, safe—a slip of a little, redheaded girl, riding the cusp of womanhood. He squinted. Instead of asking for her name, he said, “What’s for breakfast?”
“I was about to ask you the same,” she replied.
“Somebody say breakfast?” asked a sleepy voice from across the camp. A young man sat up, scratching his neck and yawning.
The girl scrunched up her face. “Who’d want to waste good vittles by lettin’ you stuff your face with ’em, Butch?”
Monahan frowned. Who the hell are these folks? The boy was fully grown, but young enough to be his, he supposed, and the girl . . . well, he must have wed himself a fine young woman to have sired such a beauty with her. He was a lucky man!
He glanced over at the dog, still lying where it had been when he woke. It still stared at him curiously, occasionally cocking its head to the left or to the right, eyeing him with something akin to suspicion.
“And what’s the trouble with you?” he asked the dog. It didn’t even blink.
“You feed him any breakfast yet?” the girl asked.
“No, don’t think so,” Monahan replied, frowning again. He couldn’t remember waking up. He ran his hand through the horse’s mane again, realizing he could remember the horse’s name, and that it was his. He’d won it in a poker game. He couldn’t recall the monikers of either the man or the gal, but they both seemed familiar to him, as did the dog.
The Trail West Page 14