The Trail West (13 page)

Besides, he’d like to get the killing of Monahan over and done with while he still had clean clothes.

“You sure?”

“Sure as anythin’. Go ahead and eat that last biscuit, Alf. I ain’t hungry anymore.” Actually, Alf had just polished off the last of the honey, and Dev had the capacity to eat only so many dry biscuits.

“Why, thanks, Dev!” Alf scooped it up.

 

 

When the hoot owls had come out to serenade and the bats had swarmed out of their caves to catch flying insects on the wing, Alf, who was supposedly asleep, suddenly sat up. “You reckon Jason left us anythin’? Like, in his will?”

“Jason? He probably didn’t have no will.”

“You can’t be sure though, can you?”

Dev turned over to face him. “I can’t be sure about anythin’, but you knew him as well as I did. And he wasn’t the sort to go makin’ out a will.”

“But—”

“Just go to sleep, Alf.”

Morning found Monahan, Sweeney, and Julia still on the Old Mormon Trail, slowly taking them west toward California. Monahan mused as he rode. He hoped the kids would keep repeating his life story, or at least the chunk Buckshot Bob held for him. It was real exciting, once he’d divorced himself from it and made it seem like someone else’s life.

Once they got to the Colorado River, Monahan had it in his mind they’d turn south and follow its banks past Yuma, to where Heber’s Kiss was supposed to be. He’d never been there, but he’d heard a few hands speak of it over the years. It was supposed to be a pretty dismal place, all told, with a combination store saloon, practically no populace, and no law to speak of.

Just the sort of place Vince George would end up leading him to, he thought. Some no-account, sun-bleached corner of hell.

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.