The Trail West

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The Trail West Page 19

by William W. Johnstone


  He wondered if Monahan had any cash on him. He’d spent more time with the bodies than Sweeney had. Maybe the dead men had been carrying a roll. He hoped it had been the Baylors’ cash. Somehow, he didn’t want to be living on money that should have gone to Julia, which her uncle’s surely should have.

  Fresh from his latest fruitless visit around the town, Sweeney walked into the hotel lobby, only to meet Monahan, who had just come downstairs.

  Sweeney had done little more than open his mouth when the old cowboy grinned wide, threw his arm around Sweeney’s shoulders, and said, “Let’s get us some dinner, boy!”

  Sweeney was too hungry to do anything but accept.

  They went into the hotel’s dining room and were seated. The serving girl handed them menus and left them to consider the choices.

  When the serving girl returned, Sweeney said, “I’ll have the special with extra potatoes, and a beer.”

  Dooley ordered, then lit the smoke he’d been fiddling with. It was a ready-made. He favored them when he could get them, but he could only find them in big towns.

  Phoenix qualified, he guessed. Why, there must be better than a thousand people here!

  There was a big cotton gin and a medium-sized icehouse, and a fellow raised Appaloosa horses on the edge of town. A public schoolhouse was planned, and work was already being done on the courthouse, since the capitol was switched between Phoenix and Prescott every five minutes. The Capitol on Wheels, people called it.

  Monahan just called it foolish. But all in all, he liked the city. The folks were friendly but they didn’t overwhelm a fellow, dogs were welcome most everywhere, and Mexicans could go about anywhere in town and not get sniffed at nor get a rock upside the head, like they got in many towns.

  There was also the big First Territorial Bank of Arizona, where he planned to go in the morning to finally cash in his voucher. He supposed it was still good, anyway, even though he’d been carrying it for a few years. He’d found it again while they were still camped outside of town. He also discovered something was missing, some piece of paper or other, but he couldn’t remember what exactly. He’d been puzzling over it all day, in fact, and had remembered at long last—not what it was, of course, but the fact that it had existed. He’d been planning to ask Sweeney about it at dinner.

  Their dinners arrived at that moment. As they began eating, Monahan asked, “Butch? Do you remember as how I had a slip of paper, somethin’ or other, in my wallet? Do you remember? Did I ask you or the girl to carry it for me, maybe?”

  Butch roused out of his stupor. “You mean, like a newspaper article or somethin’?”

  The mists cleared for Monahan. “Yeah. A newspaper clippin’.” He could almost see it . . . .

  Sweeney reached for his wallet and pulled it from his pocket. He rummaged around for a moment before he took the paper out between two fingers. “Like this? About Alaska?” He held it out.

  Monahan took it from him. “Yeah, about Alaska.” He let the words soak into his brain. “About how a body can strike gold up in Alaska.” He rubbed at his chin, then took hold of it like he was going to pinch it off. He announced, “Screw that ranch.”

  Butch looked at him like he’d gone crazy.

  Monahan frowned. “Why the hell should I go to work on some lousy cow spread for ten bucks a month when I can go to Alaska and get myself rich? You go up there and work if you’re so dang set on it!”

  “Fine. I’m goin’ with you!” Sweeney roared all of a sudden.

  The old cowboy almost physically jumped back. “Go with me? You crazy?”

  “Why should I get my legs or ribs busted up by some crazy cow when I could be taggin’ after you, makin’ my million? If I hadn’t given you that clippin’ you woulda forgot all about it!”

  He had a point. Monahan had hold of his old chin again, rubbing and squeezing it. He didn’t want to let Sweeney know how mad he was, or how close he was to just killing him. Well, not killing him all the way to death, but something awful close to it! “Jus’ who the hell do you think you are to muscle in on another man’s dream?”

  Sweeney didn’t say anything for a long minute, and Monahan thought he’d pretty well got him buffaloed, figuratively speaking, anyway. But the young cowboy leaned his chair back against the wall, pillowed the back of his head in his hands, and said like he had never insulted anybody in his whole live-long life, “I ain’t musclin’ in on nothin’, Dooley. Sounds like a good plan, that’s all. Why, the fact is, I’m fair keen on the idea.”

  All the air went out of the old cowboy like he was a big balloon somebody had just stabbed a hat pin into. He leaned his elbows on the table with his head in his hands.

  A few seconds of silence later, he heard Sweeney say, “Dooley? Dooley, are you all right?”

  Monahan looked up suddenly and snarled. “No, goddamn it, I’m not alright! Just who in tarnation do you think you are, stealin’ everybody’s dreams and makin’ them your own? You think I’d just roll over and let you do it, ’cause you been of some sorta help these last weeks? You think I’d just hand over everything I been wishin’ for, just like that?”

  Butch blinked, but said nothing.

  Monahan stood up and huffed, “I didn’t think so!”

  And then, before he had a chance to do any more thinking on the matter, he marched out of the dining room, hoping Sweeney heard his footsteps, loud and never faltering. And he hoped they scared the hell out of him.

  It wasn’t until three hours later—he hoped Sweeney had thought he’d spent them in a bar, but which he really spent alone in the boarding stable, talking to General Grant—that he came halfway to his senses. He didn’t own Alaska. He didn’t even own a parcel of land up there. He had never been to the place and had no say in who went where. Who did he think he was? God Almighty?

  He suddenly felt very small, so small that he nearly got shorter.

  “Gotta do it, General. Gotta back down and let the boy go where he wants. Gotta let him be his own man. After all, he might’ve seen that clippin’ anywhere. He might’ve talked to a feller on the street or in a bar. Anybody might’ve told him about Alaska. He’s not got nothin’ against me, and it ain’t all on me.”

  “You in here all alone, waxin’ poetic over Alaska? Still?” asked a voice from the doorway.

  It came so unexpectedly that Monahan started, but he managed to catch himself on the side of the stall. His eyes narrowed to see through the gloom. He made out a spare man—not tall, but not somebody you’d call short, either—dressed in cowboy gear, and leaning in the shadowed doorway. Dark hair, he thought. Clean shaven.

  He didn’t have the first clue to the man’s identity.

  The man didn’t seem to be having the same trouble with him, though. He finished rolling his smoke, saying, “Been a while. How you been keepin’?”

  “Tolerable,” replied Monahan, his guard still up. “And you?”

  The man flicked a match into flame and lit his smoke. “’Bout the same. Still got bunions. Still on the scout.”

  Oddly, that sounded a little familiar, but out of long-standing habit, Monahan didn’t relax one iota. Behind the cover of the stall’s walls, he let his hand drop to dangle stiffly near his Colt. And then, without warning, a word sprang from his lips. “Miller.”

  The man smiled. “I was thinkin’ you had another of those ‘clobbered’ times o’ yours. It’s good that you remembered my name, Dooley. I feel better about you, now.”

  Monahan didn’t know how to respond, so he just said, “Good for you.” He still couldn’t place the fellow, still couldn’t consciously fit him into any background or with any group of people.

  The man shook his head and sighed. “Think, Dooley. Think the spring roundup in Fort Carroll, Wyoming. About six, eight years back?” The man stared at him, looking for some sign of recognition. Apparently, he didn’t see one, because next he said, “Don’t you remember? Scalper Johnson was up there with us, and the Kid, and Darby. You spent the summer carvin’
skunks outta pine knots when we wasn’t workin’, and the Kid spent ’bout all his time tryin’ to figure out how to sell ’em? Aw, c’mon, Dooley! Say you remember just a little?”

  The man’s tone had become pleading, but Dooley kept his hand by his gun, and said, “I may know your name, but that’s all I know. Not your face, not any of those other names you said. I’m an old man, and I got enough ghosts already. Leave me be.”

  Miller, who appeared to be about forty, maybe forty-five, shook his head sadly. “Well, all right. I’ll let you get on with it. But I’m stayin’ at the Adams, and if you remember anything, gimme a shout, okay? Room two-oh-seven.”

  Monahan nodded.

  “Don’t forget?” said Miller.

  “I won’t.” The old cowboy might have forgotten where the hell he was five or six years ago, but he wouldn’t forget this little encounter if he had anything to do with it. It might take him a while, but . . . “Luden,” he said suddenly. “Luden’s Mill.”

  A grin bloomed across Miller’s face. “That’s right, Dooley! The L slash M. Colonel Harry Luden’s spread! Knew you’d remember, iffen I gave you enough time.”

  Monahan felt his fingers twitch and his hand rise away from his gun. “Colonel Luden wasn’t there, he’d been called up.” He remembered something about the Ludens. They hadn’t owned the spread that long, and he’d been told that after Vicksburg, the colonel had been called back into service by the North. He had been gone before Monahan showed up, and he left before the colonel returned. Two years had been spent on the Luden spread, two years filled with ravening Indians and cougars and unrest, and . . . “Did I serve?”

  “In what?” Miller asked. “The war?”

  Monahan nodded.

  “Sure you did. Least, you said so.”

  “For the North?”

  Miller’s brows went up warily at the question. But he nodded and said, “Yup.”

  All of a sudden, the rest came flooding in. Monahan slapped the side of his head, spooking General Grant. “Now I remember. George Miller, right?”

  Miller’s smile grew into a grin that exposed the hole left by a missing incisor on the bottom and a gold crown on top. He tossed his cigarette butt to the street outside, and came forward to greet Monahan with both arms out.

  They embraced over the stall’s rail, and the old cowboy was suddenly exceedingly grateful he hadn’t shot Miller on first sight. He’d been sorely tempted. He’d admit that, if only to himself.

  George Miller was some years younger than Dooley Monahan. At five-foot-ten, he was taller than average, and his dark brown hair had only just begun to gray. When Monahan had known him up in Wyoming, it hadn’t yet begun to turn, and he remembered being mad at George then for not aging like he had. He’d felt old age slowly covering him all over like candle wax. But his anger had disappeared in no time once he got to know George.

  And just like then, he felt all his initial uneasiness melt away as the two men began to rehash old times and tell each other over and over again just how plain good it was to set an eye on the other.

  He returned to the hotel alone, but in much better spirits than he had left it. In fact, he didn’t even remember the argument about Alaska until he’d been tiptoeing around Sweeney’s sleeping form for about five minutes.

  Even then, he held no hard feelings. Why, if he hadn’t argued over Alaska he never would have stormed out of the hotel, never would have gone to the livery, and never would have run in to George! He reckoned he owed Sweeney a word or two of gratitude. But later. He was plumb worn out.

  He climbed into bed with the dog right behind him, got his feet angled over the end of the mattress like he wanted, and fell asleep thinking happy thoughts.

  26

  Out at the Hoskins’ station it was coming noon, and all three kids, Julia included, were in the kitchen, sitting down at the big worktable. They weren’t complete, though. Somebody was still missing.

  Buckshot Bob had been gone since the morning after Monahan and Sweeney had left. Mae hadn’t explained his absence in any detail, and seemed just as puzzled as the kids, although she tried to put up a good, solid front, saying he’d had to go into Phoenix to pick up a piece of harness.

  But Julia had seen the lie right from the beginning. Why had he traveled clear into Phoenix when stages went there, then came back out, regular as clockwork? One of the drivers could have picked up a piece of harness as easily as he, and he wouldn’t have had to lose days and days of work time.

  So where on earth had he gone?

  Julia could buy the Phoenix part, because they had all seen him ride off in that direction. Of course, he could have changed his heading once he got clear of them, but Phoenix was as good as anyplace else. For a start.

  But what had tempted him away? For all she’d seen of him, he was content to be out on the station with his family. He was proud of his livestock, his wife and kids, and the home they’d built on the Old Mormon Trail. He seemed content. He actually seemed happy!

  She had a lot to think about as she ate her lunch.

  Sweeney woke before Monahan. In fact, he had shaved, changed his underwear, and got clear ready for the new day before the old cowboy showed the first signs of rousing with a twitch of his stockinged foot.

  “Well, good mornin’, sunshine,” Sweeney said.

  Monahan growled softly, then cracked open one eye. “What the hell time is it? And who you callin’ sunshine?”

  Sweeney snorted out a laugh. “It’s nine-thirty. And it don’t mean nothin’. It’s just somethin’ my mama used to say, bless her heart.”

  Monahan sat up and began searching for his boots. He found them, and put the first one on. “Well, it wasn’t somethin’ she’d have called me.” He thumped his heel on the floor, seating the boot on his foot, then picked up the other. He let the second one swing between his fingers. “Nine-thirty, you say?”

  “Yeah. Why? You got a pressin’ appointment or somethin’?”

  Monahan chuckled. “Not so’s you’d notice. But I’ve gotta get to the bank, and then I’m meetin’ somebody for lunch.”

  Sweeney felt his face screw up. “You’re meetin’ somebody for lunch?”

  Monahan ceased dangling the boot, and stomped it onto his foot. “I can eat, can’t I?”

  Sweeney shrugged. “Didn’t know you knew anybody in Phoenix to eat with. Wanna have some breakfast with me?”

  “Wouldn’t mind,” said Monahan, taking to his feet. He headed toward the door. “It’s George Miller I’m havin’ lunch with. Used to work with him up in Wyoming.” When Sweeney raised a brow, he added, “Ran into him last night, down to the livery.”

  Monahan stepped through the doorway and into the hall, with Blue trying to fit through at the same time. Sweeney followed, shaking his head at the dog. It seemed strange to him Monahan should remember Miller all on his own and right out of the blue. He’d never done that since Sweeney had been with him. Well, except for Buckshot Bob Hoskins and Vince George, anyway. Those two he’d remembered just fine.

  Sweeney just didn’t know how the old cowboy kept things straight! It was a mystery to him.

  He went on down to a nearest cantina, trailing in Monahan’s—well, actually the dog’s—wake and had himself a nice big breakfast of scrambled eggs and warm tortillas and cactus jelly.

  Once Monahan had paid for the meal and they had wandered outside, he excused himself to go to the bank.

  “You got your voucher on you?” Sweeney asked, hoping Monahan hadn’t misplaced the paper and then forgotten.

  Dooley grinned. “Why you bein’ so worrisome, boy?”

  Sweeney didn’t hesitate. “Because you’re actin’ funny! Because you’re a different person from one minute to the next!”

  Monahan responded by laughing and digging into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of bills, which he placed in Sweeney’s reluctant hands. “That there’s ’bout half o’ what I took off them Baylor boys. That should ease your mind, son.”

  The gestu
re was so unexpected that before Sweeney thought what to say, the old cowboy had disappeared down the sidewalk, headed for the bank.

  He walked a good half mile before he came to the bank. It was the biggest he’d seen in a while and located in what he guessed was called the business district. Once again, he felt his pocket. The wallet was still there. He paused before he went through the door to check once again. The voucher was still there. He read it.

  PAY TO THE ORDER OF Dooley Monahan

  THE SUM OF $500.00 Gold FOR Reward

  for Baylor, Jason: Wanted for various crimes,

  Territorial and Federal.

  It was dated September 4, 1869, in Twin Pines, South Dakota, and signed by Marshal Tobin. Monahan remembered him. He could almost picture him . . . if he closed his eyes.

  But the important thing was that he was at a good-sized bank, he had his voucher, and he was going to cash it, by God. He opened the door and walked inside.

  The guard eyed him, but apparently didn’t see much of a threat. At least, after half a minute he went back to his newspaper. Monahan walked on up to a teller—there were four—and slid his voucher under the partition. “Like to cash this in,” he said casually.

  The clerk, young and clean shaven, smiled and said, “Yes sir,” then looked at the paper. His brows rose up until Monahan could have sworn they were going to meet his hairline!

  He said, “You all right there, boy?”

  The teller gulped and said, “Y-yes. Did you know that this paper is three years old, sir?”

  Monahan narrowed his brows. “I do. Why? Ain’t it no good anymore?”

  “Oh! Yes, sir. It certainly is good!” The clerk was clearly flustered. “It’s just that, well, there were three Baylor brothers to begin with, right?”

  Now, Dooley was the confused party. “Yeah . . ?”

  “Well, I just had reason to check back through some old posters, and three years back, the reward was the same for all three Baylors. They were all the same amount, I mean.”

 

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