The Trail West

by William W. Johnstone

  The girl stuck her arm in a big flour sack beside his bedroll and began to dig. Assuming she had located the grub, he finished up with the General, then sat down in what he took to be his place. If it wasn’t the damnedest thing, not being able to remember! He would’ve said something to somebody in the hopes that they could sort it out for him, but despite the feeling that his companions were familiar and could be trusted, there was still a niggling doubt at the back of his mind. He’d let the day play out and see what happened.

  He leaned back, pulled the brim of his hat low to shield his eyes from the sun, and dozed off to the sounds of the girl making coffee.

  Something was wrong with Monahan. Julia was certain of it. From the looks of things, he had gotten up a long time before her and Sweeney, but hadn’t roused them to get a start on this supposedly important day. He’d wolfed down the breakfast she’d made before he hopped up and tacked her horse for her, something he never did! And the topper was that once they were mounted up, he had just sat there on General Grant, looking at her and Butch like they were supposed to lead the way.

  Something was wrong when Dooley Monahan didn’t take charge right off the bat. Sweeney had noticed something too, so at least she wasn’t going crazy. Julia had caught his eye after they rode out of camp, and he looked as confused as she felt, but did no more than shrug by way of an answer. She had guessed, and rightly so, that she’d get no answers from him. Not at that time, anyway.

  Sweeney gave a quick glance around, wondering how much longer they would continue riding aimlessly. He shook his head. They’d been moving since early morning, traveling for all the world as if they had nowhere to go and no business to see to. Monahan rode that old bay horse like some kind of saddle tramp, a man with no purpose and no goal. They couldn’t be more than a half hour from their goal, perhaps just minutes.

  Sweeney mumbled, “You’d think he’d at least show some enthusiasm! Or ner vousness.”

  But Monahan plodded along like there was nothing on his mind, like he hadn’t put Julia in danger just by bringing her along, and like there was nothing ahead of any particular import he had to attend to. It was a downright puzzle, that’s what it was!

  Sweeney would have called a halt to everything and asked him outright, except . . . except, well, it was Dooley Monahan. Sweeney had too much respect for his elders to call the old cowboy on his behavior. Well, not his elders so much, but Monahan, anyway. With a sigh, Sweeney continued riding.

  The vegetation was weird. They’d pass clumps of trees, then ride through desert for a while, then come to a big grove of trees, and all with the river rushing along not fifteen feet from his right ear. He tried to figure out how close they were to Mexico, but had no frame of reference upon which to draw. He figured they were pretty well near the border country, since Monahan had told them to watch for Apaches. They raided farther north, of course, but he hadn’t even seen old signs, let alone new, and that told him he and his companions were pretty safe from redskins.

  Still, he kept his right hand near the butt of his gun.

  Roughly fifteen minutes later, Sweeney involuntarily reined in Chili, stood in his stirrups, and pointed to the east. “Dooley!”

  Julia reined in right away, but Monahan kept on riding until Sweeney hollered a second time.

  Monahan reined his horse and turned around in his saddle. “You say somethin’, son?”

  Sweeney was so taken by the salutation that he reined up short, but he managed to stutter, “Th-them buildings over there. Is that Heber’s Kiss?”

  In the far distance, the roofs of two buildings peeked through the rocks. After taking a long look, Monahan turned back to Sweeney. “Heber’s Kiss?” He cocked a brow as if he’d never heard of the town before.

  Julia broke in with the question Sweeney had been putting off. “Dooley, are you broke in the head or somethin’?”

  Monahan tilted his head a little, “Why? Do I act like it?”

  “You do,” Julia said right out and with no hint of a smile. “You been actin’ funny since this mornin’.”

  Monahan crossed his wrists over his saddle horn and leaned toward her. “Do tell.”

  Julia tucked her chin. “Well, you know! Stuff! You been actin’ like you got . . . Well, I dunno! But your head ain’t screwed on right!”

  “Since this mornin’?”

  Sweeney couldn’t stand it any longer. “Since this mornin’, Dooley,” he repeated firmly. He wasn’t going to let Monahan weasel his way out. As Sweeney figured it, he and Julia had risked life and limb, and at the least, were owed an explanation. He realized all of a sudden, Monahan hadn’t called either of them by name since the night before. Hell, the old cowboy hadn’t even used the dog’s name!

  The young cowboy lost his patience. “Dooley, just what in the name of ever’thing holy is goin’ on with you?”

  Monahan surprised everyone by calmly drawing his gun.

  Sweeney heard an audible hiss as Julia abruptly took in air. “W-what are you g-gonna d-d-do?” he asked haltingly.

  “Just who the hell are you, boy?”

  Sweeney’s brows shot up. “It’s me, Dooley! Butch. Butch Sweeney!”

  “And her?” Monahan indicated Julia with the nose of his gun.

  “Ju—”

  “Julia Cooperman,” she snapped, slapping her crossed arms over her chest. “As if you didn’t know!” When all he did was look annoyed, she jabbed a finger toward Blue and added, “You could at least say good mornin’ to your own dog.”

  “But you called him a scruffy monster!” Julia said again, full of righteous indignation. They had just ridden into the town, but it was barely a wide spot in the road, conveniently equipped with a dusty old saloon, a falling-in-on-itself livery, and one other building, which she took for an outhouse. Blue tagged along happily, his tongue lolling, but she saw no signs of people until they rounded the saloon, to what she guessed was the front. It had a big sign, although she couldn’t make out the letters on the weathered boards, and a burro tethered to the remnants of a hitching rail. The burro was halfway packed.

  She looked over at Sweeney, who shrugged. “This must be the place, I reckon. You got any more o’ them lemon drops?”

  “’Course I do, but now ain’t the time to—”

  “Shut up, the both of you!” Monahan growled as they stopped between the two ramshackle buildings. “Get down.”

  He eased himself off his horse and down to the ground. He led the General forward. “Well, c’mon,” he said over his shoulder.

  Sweeney dismounted and ran forward to catch him by the shoulder. “You’re not takin’ her in there!” he insisted.

  Julia could tell he was plenty riled up, and made a mental note of it.

  Monahan whirled about and brushed Sweeney’s hand aside. He kept his tone low. “I’m takin’ her, dammit! For sure, he saw us ridin’ up. If we leave her outside, he’s bound to figure somethin’s afoot.”

  “Oh.” The angry look left Sweeney’s face. “She just better not got hurt, Dooley. I mean it.”

  Curtly, Monahan nodded and continued forward, leading General Grant. Julia, feeling safe as a baby, hopped down off her horse and followed. Sweeney brought up the rear, leading their horses.

  They tied the horses at the broken rail and entered the saloon. It was deserted. Sweeney looked around. “Maybe he’s closed.”

  Somebody in the back room dropped a case of something that broke like wood and shattered like glass and set the air practically throbbing with the scent of good bourbon whiskey.

  “Or maybe he’s not.” Sweeney sniffed the air and licked his lips.

  “If he’d bust just one little vial of eau de cologne, it’d smell like that French sportin’ house up in”—Monahan hesitated, screwing up his face—“somewhere . . . I forget.” He pulled out a ragged-looking chair at the only usable table in the place, and waved Julia into it. He sat down next to her, facing the bar, and Sweeney pulled out the chair next to him.

  Blue
walked farther into the shotgun-shaped building and took up a position at the far end of the bar, out of everybody’s sight excepting Julia’s. She thought it was odd, and was about to remark on it when the man came out of the backroom, scrubbing the backs of his hands with a bar rag.

  He was a hard man to look at, Julia thought.

  His hair was a white shock, and the scar ran up his cheek and across his eye, just as Monahan had described it. He was on the thin side, and appeared to have been brought up on hard living. His face was haggard and nasty, lined with age. He was death incarnate, and would think no more about ending their lives than another man might feel about swatting a fly.

  For the first time since they’d set out for Heber’s Kiss, Monahan’s quest for revenge became horribly real to her.

  The man smiled, but spoke with a voice that cut the air like a blade. “So there’s folks around here after all. I’d about give up. Hope y’all have got a powerful thirst.” He hesitated, taking note of the trio’s silence, then leaned on the bar. He gave no sign of recognizing Monahan. though. “So, what can I get you?”

  The old cowboy spoke up clear and clean. “We’d like a couple shots of that good bourbon I’m scentin’, with beer chasers. And somethin’ plain, with no hooch in it, for the missy, here.” He angled a look at Julia for her preference.

  She could only bring herself to shrug and say, “Surprise me.”

  She heard Monahan say, “You heard the lady,” then listened while their host walked out of the room and into the storage area.

  “It’s Vince, all right,” Monahan said softly.

  Julia looked up from the table’s scarred surface. “He scares the pee waddin’ outta me!” came her whispered words. “I mean, I know you told us, but seein’ him is somethin’ else.” She flicked a glance across the table at Sweeney.

  His face echoed her unspoken fears. “He’s obviously loadin’ the good stuff onto the burro outside. He’s plannin’ on movin’ out. I say we let him.”

  Monahan told it straight. “You ain’t got a choice, boy.”

  Vince George emerged from the back room carrying two bottles under one arm and three glasses clipped between the fingers of the other.

  Julia jumped a little at his return, but managed to keep from yipping with fear. She could never remember being so frightened of anyone in her life, not even the night her so-called “uncle” had stolen her innocence. She had no doubt the bar owner would kill her for no reason. Uncle Kirby might very well have killed her eventually, but at least he would have had a reason. He would have had to get something out of the deal—decent horse, or better yet, another girl.

  The thought did little to comfort her.

  She stared at the table while George poured bourbon into shot glasses and slid them in front of the men. Beside her, Monahan dug in his pocket while Sweeney slouched nervously on his other side, ticking the edge of his left cuff with his right thumbnail.

  A minute later, the barman shoved a full glass—and a dusty old bottle, marked SULLIVAN’S SARSAPARILLA—toward Julia, then accepted coins from Monahan. “That’s for the whole bottle o’ sasperilla. You fellers change your mind about wantin’ more bourbon, I’ll leave it on the bar.”

  For a moment, Julia heard another sound in the bar, something besides the scraping of the bottle off the table and the footsteps of George walking back behind the bar. She could barely hear the soft and menacing I-mean-business growl.

  The rumble calmed her at first, but then gave her something new to worry about. If this Vince person would kill her for the sport of it, what compunctions would he have about killing Blue? None, that’s what!

  Silently, she began to cry.

  Monahan elbowed her in the ribs and whispered, “Not the time for it, yet.”

  20

  The time came sooner than anyone expected.

  The door to the back room burst open with a bang, and they all jumped at the noise. Blue, too. He leaped up on the top of a broken table pushed against the end of the bar, and flattened himself below the height of the bar top. Only his hackles, raised high like angry shoulder wisps, gave his position away.

  Vince George didn’t notice the dog as he strode behind the bar, holding a shotgun across his chest, and barked, “Ain’t I seen you before, mister?”

  Sweeney piped up right off. “No sir, I don’t think I ever had the pleasure.”

  “Not you, idiot!” George swung the shotgun, its muzzle aimed straight at Monahan. “You, old buzzard. Who are you? Iffen you gimme a summer name, I’ll know it!”

  Monahan, who should have been scared out of his skin, leaned back in his chair and smiled real friendly. “Didn’t think a normal person could recollect clear back to the old Monty’s Raiders days. Congratulations.”

  Vince cocked his head, surprised, but still determined.

  Down at the end of the bar, Blue silently raised himself up and put one paw on the scarred bar’s surface.

  Monahan noticed him, and did everything he could to not call attention by looking at him. He smiled wider. “I’m curious. Who’d you think I was?”

  “Still don’t rightly know. Fella I thought you was, well, he’s long dead.”

  Silently, Blue brought his other front foot up onto the bar top.

  “Well, some folks figger as how I’m long dead, even whilst they’re talkin’ to my face. A body’s mind plays ’em funny, sometimes.” Monahan gave a shrug as if he hadn’t a care in the world and tossed back the rest of his bourbon.

  Vince George gave a wag of his gun’s barrel. Make that barrels. It was a double-barreled shotgun he was holding on them.

  Weakly, Julia wondered just how far the kill zone would extend. Probably just far enough to send me to Jesus, she thought.

  “Believe I’ll take me another shot o’ that bourbon.” Monahan rose to create a huge vacuum in the space he’d been sitting. Julia, who had been leaning toward him without realizing it, had to grab the table’s edge to keep from being sucked into the empty space his absence created.

  “Hold it right there,” Vince barked. The cock of the gun underlined his words. “Either you say who the hell you are, mister, or I’m gonna give you a mouthful of—”

  Blue leaped down the bar.

  Vince swung the barrel toward the movement.

  At the same moment, the old cowboy shoved Julia’s chair over sideways, leaped over her sprawled body, and grabbed the shotgun’s swinging barrel, yanking it upward and shouting, “Leave go, you murderous ruffian!”

  Vince’s face opened wide with sudden recognition. “Dooley?”

  The gun went off, the dog’s open mouth latched onto the bar owner’s arm, and Monahan yanked the shotgun out of Vince’s hands.

  Blue changed his angle of attack, clamping down on the side of Vince’s face, and the old owlhoot fell backward, cracking his head hard on the floor. Sweeney shouted bloody murder and Julia scrambled helplessly in an effort to regain her footing.

  Monahan set the spent shotgun on the bar and poured himself another shot of bourbon. Three fingers, this time.

  Julia grasped her chair and dragged it upright, then hauled herself up by its seat. “What happened?” she asked weakly.

  She looked around and saw Sweeney on the floor, Monahan lifting a glass to his lips, and nothing else. No sign of the dog, or of Vince. “I wish I was a man.”

  Monahan frowned. “Whatever for?”

  She sighed and slumped back into her chair. “So’s I could have me a drink.”

  “Don’t see any reason why you can’t.” He poured out a second drink while he flicked a glance over at Sweeney. “You all right, boy?”

  “Hell, no, I’m not,” Sweeney said directly into the saw-dusted floor. “I’m goddamn shot! I’m dyin’!”

  “Aw, crap,” Dooley replied. He set Julia’s bourbon on the table, and took two long steps over to where the young cowboy lay. Taking hold of Sweeney’s shoulder, he rolled him onto his back. “If you’re dyin’, it ain’t from them little drill h
oles that buckshot put in you.” He raised his hand and picked out a single piece of buckshot from the man’s forehead. “See that? There’s your slug of death.”

  Sweeney made a halfhearted grab for it, but Monahan held it up for Julia. “Here. You keep that for him.”

  Numbly, she took it. Things were moving too fast for her. Monahan turned his attention back up toward the bar. “Blue?” he called softly.

  She heard the click of nails on the plank floor as the dog rounded the end of the bar and came toward her. She held down her hands. “Hello, baby. Are you all right?”

  Wagging his rump, Blue leaned into her hug. There was blood on his mouth and down one side of his muzzle, but that was all she could find. Still clinging to the dog, she looked up at Monahan. “I don’t think he’s hurt, but there’s so much blood.”

  Monahan nodded curtly. “Vince’s.”

  “Is he . . . ?”

  “Banged his head, I reckon. Leastwise, there ain’t no more bubbles in his blood. Boy, are you gonna figure out you ain’t dyin’ and come help me?”

  Sweeney slowly pulled himself into a sit. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

  Julia said, “Lemme look at that for you.”

  He shook his head, scattering the last few droplets of blood. “Wanna have me a look at Dooley’s old friend, Vince.” Slowly, he got to his feet.

  “Don’t believe he’s dead?” Monahan asked from behind the bar.

  “Just wanna double check, that’s all.” Sweeney went to the bar and looked over and down. “Sure looks dead.”

  Monahan appeared to study on the statement, then said, “Don’t he just.”

  Vince George was dead, indeed, but Monahan didn’t feel like burying him. Part of him figured the old owlhoot just plain wasn’t worth it, and the other part of him was too bone tired. He settled for dragging the body out to the street.