15
Come mid-afternoon, they had turned toward the east when they hit the first signs of the Old Mormon Trail. It was marked on both sides by broken glass that sparkled for miles before and behind them; by abandoned Conestoga wagons with the weathered remains of broken axles plunging upward through wagon beds; by big, heavy objects like pianos or chifforobes discarded after being hauled for miles; and by graves marked with everything from granite slabs to wooden crosses tied together with rotting cloth to simple cairns of rocks. And except for the low hills that marked the distant horizons, there was nothing around but desert.
Sweeney and Julia gawked at first, then became jaded to the sights as the afternoon wore on and the temperature rose. Neither was accustomed to the heat on the flats, and several times Monahan seriously considered calling a halt until the evening. But that all changed when he saw the first signs of Hoskins’ farm. He spied cattle here and there, scattered in the distance ahead. They roamed aimlessly or rooted through the low scrub, looking for anything they might have missed earlier.
As they drew nearer, more and more stray memories floated through his mind like so many wandering balloons. Some floated within his reach, like the face of Buckshot Bob Hoskins’ daughter, Meggie, and her little pup, Daisy-June; the inside of the Hoskins’ home, the warm kitchen in particular, and the roast beef Buckshot Bob’s wife Mae had served on his last visit; and the stock pond Buckshot Bob was just beginning to dig out back behind the barns.
It wasn’t much longer before he saw the house and the barns dimly outlined in the distance. He felt his heart flood with joy that he remembered them. Without realizing it, he nudged General Grant into a trot.
The trio gained the Hoskins spread within a half hour. They rode into the yard and dismounted as the house door opened and people poured out.
Monahan recognized Mae and Buckshot Bob right away. He didn’t recognize Meggie—who, at fifteen, was almost grown—or her younger brother Robbie, although he was the spitting image of his father. Their dog, Daisy-June, having long left puppyhood behind, followed in their wake, wagging her little stub of a tail behind her.
“Oh, Dooley! Is it you?” Mae cried as she threw her arms around him. “It’s been over eight years, hasn’t it, Bob?”
“Nine, mayhap ten!” Bob’s wide grin was framed by a close-cropped goatee and graying mustaches. He kept slapping Monahan on the back, barking out a big belly laugh, and then slapping him again.
As for Monahan, he just laughed and laughed.
Buckshot Bob Hoskins had met up with Monahan long ago, back when he was trying to retrieve his memories of Iowa and his folks, Missouri and Monty’s Raiders, and Kathleen.
After two long nights on the front porch, too many cigarettes, and countless pots of coffee, Buckshot Bob and Monahan had relived their experiences together through the years up to just prior to the Civil War. Sweeney had sat with them and listened.
The two old friends sat on the porch steps, the yard filled with crushed out and discarded smokes before them and a half-gone pitcher of lemonade between them. Sweeney sat behind so as not to intrude, the slow rhythmic meter of his rocking reminding Monahan of home and Iowa, of his ma rocking softly while she sewed and mended in the main room when he was just a little tyke and had been put down for a nap. The sound soothed him as he listened to the tale of his wandering during the years before the war.
He remembered most of it with Buckshot Bob there to provoke his mind, but part of it sounded like something out of a storybook—outlandish tales some writer had made up, featuring a hero—or maybe a villain—who happened to carry the name of Dooley Monahan. He was torn about that part.
He leaned back, resting his spine against the center step, and lit a fresh smoke. “My goodness,” he said as he exhaled. “That’s quite a story, there, Bob. I greatly appreciate you takin’ the time to remember it, and to say it all out for me.”
Bob poured them each a fresh glass of lemonade, then turned and offered the pitcher to Sweeney, who shook his head. “Had enough, thanks.”
Bob put the pitcher back down and pulled his fixings pouch from his pocket.
He yanked it open, then looked up. “Dooley, I swan, that’s three times you’ve rode in here and three times I’ve said it out for you. You ought to write it down or somethin’. I mean . . . I might get killed before you ride through again!”
Monahan smiled. “Ain’t dead yet, are you?”
Buckshot Bob Hoskins threw his hands in the air, snapping, “That’s what you said last time!”
Monahan caught the fixings bag in midair before it had the chance to pick up any dust from the ground and handed it back. “Mayhap that’s why you’re still kickin’, Bob. Ever think o’ that?”
Behind him, Sweeney laughed softly.
Beside, Bob furrowed his brow.
Sweeney had listened to everything Buckshot Bob had told Monahan for three nights, and he had to admit that the old cowboy had surely had one hell of a tangled life. He’d sure been banged up a lot, too. Been thumped upside the head more often than Hector had pups! Any other fellow would’ve been dead, but Monahan? No way! It had made him a little scrambled in his brain, but he was still around.
Now, that was the sign of one tough customer!
Of course, the story Bob had told didn’t really match up, Sweeney thought. More like, the story was broken into three segments—one long stretch of time and two short ones. The long one lasted from Dooley’s time with Monty’s Raiders back to, well, Iowa and his childhood. The next one, shorter than the first, was about Kathleen and his wild times in the South. And the third was later still, up around the end of the Civil War. He imagined Monahan’s whole life as a great big hunk of Swiss cheese, all full of holes filled with nothing but mystery, and none of them connected. Not that he could figure, anyhow.
If he’d had access to paper and pen, he would have tried to chart it out, to figure the big empty places still remaining and the ones that had been filled in by Bob. He figured there were big, deep holes that would surprise the puddin’ out of Monahan himself, things buried so deep he had forgotten that he’d forgotten!
Sweeney hadn’t had a chance to talk about it. Bob and Mae had put him up in Robbie’s room like he was some kind of kid, and Monahan was sleeping in the barn, by his own choice.
He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Julia, either. She was bunking in with Meggie, and the girls were having a high time of it, whispering and giggling, and doing all kinds of, well,
girl
stuff. He had no time for any of it, and they in turn had no time for him whatsoever. Even the Blue dog wasn’t giving him the time of day, preferring to follow Hoskins’ dog, Daisy-June, around like she was the beginning and end-all of the world.
Only his horse, Chili, seemed to have the slightest interest in him, and that was only around feeding time.
But nothing could disinterest him in the story he’d been hearing out on the front porch, and nothing could pull him from Monahan’s side. Not even the threat of the Baylor boys, who might be coming from the north at any minute. Not even that story about “Man Eater” Monahan and the business with the alligator. Sweeney had latched on to the old cowboy, for good or ill, and once he got his boots slid into the stirrups, he stayed around for the whole ride.
He rolled onto his side. Robbie was asleep on the other bed, and he watched the boy’s chest slowly rise and fall a couple of times before rolling all the way over to his back. He stared at the ceiling and wondered what the Baylor boys were doing. Had they set out in the right direction once they got clear of Iron Creek? Had they made it out of Iron Creek in the first place?
He made a face at the darkness. That was a stupid question. Milton J. Carmichael couldn’t keep a weak dog on a strong chain, let alone Alf Baylor in jail!
Sweeney snorted at the moon, which he could see through the window. It hung in the sky, bright and high and almost full, making promises only the moon can make, and then promptly ignoring the consequences of its empty guarantees. The moon was nothing but a snake-oil salesman, he thought. Prettier than most, but just as untrustworthy.
“Moon’s nice tonight.” Alf stood about ten feet out from the campfire, staring upward. A half-smoked cigarette hung limply from his fingers.
His brother sat about the same distance from him, shaking his head. Since they’d ridden out of Iron City Alf had carried on about the moon or the grass or the trees or the cactus. Not once had he so much as noticed that Dev had broken him out of jail again. He shook his head again, mumbling, “You’d think he’d take note o’ something like that. You’d think he’d at least say thanks or something.”
You’d think . . . well, you’d think a lot of things, but where Alf was concerned? You’d be wrong every time.
Dev sighed. “You’re gonna burn your fingers.”
Quickly, Alf looked down at his hand. The smoke was, indeed, burning very close to his fingertips, and he threw it down and stomped the life out of it.
“It’s out,” Dev said, when Alf kept on stomping.
Alf ignored him.
“Alf! You already got it!”
“What?” Alf said, giving a final stamp of his foot.
Dev slowly shook his head. “Never mind. Better get back by the fire.”
“Sure,” Alf replied absently. He made his way back to the fire and slumped down next to his bedroll. “I ain’t sure we’re goin’ the right way,” he said, out of the blue.
Actually, Dev wasn’t certain either, but he played along. “Then, just where do you think we oughta be goin’?”
Alf didn’t hesitate. “North.”
Dev scratched at his chin. “Why north?”
Alf shrugged. “The moon told me.”
Well, that was a new one. Clouds had talked to him before. Trees, sagebrush, the occasional saguaro cactus, titmice, badgers, pronghorn, even the wind—they all talked to Alf at one time or another. But never the moon.
Dev, torn between amusement and wanting to thump his brother with an axe handle, asked, “Why’s the moon talkin’ to you all of a sudden? I mean, why ain’t it talkin’ to the president or the queen or somebody?”
“Dunno. Mayhap they ain’t awake.” Alf spread out his blanket. “We got any biscuits left?”
“Pan by the fire.”
Alf helped himself. He popped one in his mouth, whole, then managed to say around it, “Any coffee?”
“By the fire.”
Alf poured himself a cup and Dev, hidden by shadows, shook his head again, thinking they’d been dead wrong to bust Alf out of that asylum. At least he hadn’t sleep-talked any of that crazy English stuff—roos and wallabies, whatever they were—while they were on the trail. Seemed to Dev, Alf was always trying to get himself killed, or worse, get him killed.
One day, he was bound to succeed.
Dev let out a heavy sigh and considered Alf’s recommended direction. North was exactly where he figured Dooley Monahan wasn’t headed, but he decided to keep it to himself for a bit. “I’ll keep that in mind, Alf. I mean, what the moon has to say. But I wanna keep on headin’ west for another day or so. Just to make sure.”
Alf, who was already half asleep, muttered, “Just to make sure,” and turned over, putting his back to Dev before his breathing deepened. Sleep settled over him like a mantle.
16
The next day was a Sunday, so Monahan was a little surprised when Buckshot Bob came stomping into the barn at six in the morning, serious as a heart attack, and began feeding and grooming the the six big bays stalled alongside the old cowboy’s sleeping place. Being understandably curious, he stretched his legs and arms, and sat up.
“Whatcha doin’ there, Buckshot Bob?” he asked softly, so as not to startle either the man or the horses.
Bob didn’t startle easily. Without missing a brushstroke, he said, “Now Dooley, what’s it look like I’m up to?” He chortled softly under his breath.
Monahan stood up. “Well, it appears to me like you’re tryin’ to brush all the bay off that gelding. What you expectin’ to find underneath?”
Buckshot Bob’s chortle turned into a guffaw. “You’re a real card, Dooley. If you gotta know, today’s a workday around here, just like every other Friday, Sunday, and Wednesday.”
Monahan’s face bunched up. He hadn’t noticed Bob giving the horses any special grooming on Friday. But then, he’d gone to bed late Thursday night and had let himself sleep in for a bit in the morning. Hell, it had been past nine when he woke. He looked closely at the bays. Come to think of it, these weren’t even the same horses!
Buckshot Bob finished with the first horse, and began to work on the second.
“I don’t mean to be buttin’ in, but you’re sure doin’ a bum job of it if you’re planning to take ’em out for a ride.”
Bob turned around and laughed right out loud. “Dooley, you really
was
down for the count on Friday mornin’! And here I was thinkin’ you was fakin’ it.”
Monahan opened up his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he said, “Now, you really got me confuddled! What the hell you up to, Bob?”
Currycomb in one hand, body brush in the other, Bob paused and turned toward him. “Thought it was obvious, Dooley. I’m gettin’ these six ready for a quick switch out for when the stage comes in.”
Monahan let out a big chest full of air with an audible sigh. “Well, damn! Now that crappy groomin’ job you’re doin’ makes sense!” He found himself some brushes and went to work on the third horse, a leggy bay mare.
The two men, working in tandem, had all the horses groomed and turned out in a matter of minutes. Buckshot Bob had a look at his watch. One grizzled eyebrow shot up in question. “I think we about got time for a cuppa coffee before the stage comes roarin’ in here.”
Dooley nodded in response.
When they gained the house, Mae was already pouring them steaming cups of coffee. Buckshot Bob grinned at her when she shoved a mug into his hands. After taking a sip, he asked, “You spied us from the window, didn’t you?”
A quick nod and the hint of a smile indicated yes, she’d been spying on him, and yes, that’s why she had the coffee ready, and that he’d best drink it down if he expected to be ready when the stage pulled in.
People, Monahan mused, were the same wherever you went. Married folks, anyway. And then it came to him, he and Kathy. Had they communicated in this silent sort of married people’s Morse code? It occurred to him they must have done just that, if he so easily recognized it in others.
He smiled a little and tested his coffee. It was hot, but not too hot to drink. He watched Mae poke bacon inside a fresh-baked biscuit and hand it to young Robbie on his way out the door. “You makin’ those for any who as ask?”
“Oh, not for just anyone.” She grinned, poked a couple of strips into another biscuit, and handed it to him. “Only for folks I love.”
“Thankee, ma’am.” He took a big bite.
The biscuit was barely swallowed when he heard a commotion out front.
Bob grabbed his arm. “That’s for us.” He headed out the back door again, with Monahan dogging his tracks to keep up.
And speaking of dogs, he hadn’t seen Blue all morning. Now, Blue usually came down to the barn with Buckshot Bob in the mornings, to lick Dooley awake. Or sort through his pockets, more like. He’d made the mistake of nodding off with a couple of Mae’s good sugar cookies in his shirt pocket one night, and that was what had awakened him the next morning—Blue’s big old nose and hot, snuffling breath, spreading his pocket wide to get at those cookies!
“Ease up, there, Dooley!” Buckshot Bob called from across the paddock. “They gotta take time to use the outhouse and eat a bite of breakfast afore they take off again.”
Relieved at the news, Monahan slowed down. A little. Reaching the barn, he helped Buckshot Bob harness the six bays. It wasn’t until he had the last of his three horses strapped into its harness that he said anything about the dog.
“Oh, he’s around,” said Buckshot Bob. “I mean, where’s he gonna go?”
“Ain’t like him, that’s all,” Monahan grumbled. “Usually, I have to shove him outta my way every two minutes until I give him his breakfast.”
Bob laughed. “In case you ain’t noticed, he’s a lot more interested in our Daisy-June than in anythin’ else, lately. A bitch in heat’ll distract even the keenest cow dog, y’know.”
Monahan thumbed the strap through its buckle and pulled it tight, muttering, “Not this one, it don’t.” He moved to the head of the lead horse and walked it outside. Just as he turned to take the horses toward the road and the front of the house, he heard something new. A shout! The shout of a kid in distress.
He turned toward the noise and found himself facing the outbuildings, just as another cry sounded. Without thinking, he dropped the reins of the horse and sprinted toward the sound, calling, “Hold on, keep hollerin’! I’m comin’, I’m comin’!”
He skidded to a halt before the first shed. The kid hadn’t called out again, and Monahan pictured him inside one of the outbuildings, hanging by his fingertips—or toes—from a rafter over a pack of snarling wolves. He threw open the door and was greeted by a sea of saddles and other tack hanging from ropes depending from the ceiling. “Kid!” he cried. “Kid! You in here?”
The voice sounded again, but it was weaker than before. More strangled, he thought. It came from outside, and far away.
He ran outside, slammed the door behind him, and raced around to the back of the shed. There, he found himself facing the stock pond. Alone and at the bottom of a shallow rise, it sat against clay colored banks, its shallow water still and muddy.
He scanned the banks, but could see nothing until his eyes came to rest on a clump of boulders and weeds on the far edge of the water. There, he picked out the shape of a dog, muddy and bedraggled. Softly, he said, “Blue?” even though he didn’t recognize him, and knew the dog couldn’t hear him. No sign of a human.
Suddenly, the dog tucked its head and with a mighty heave, shook itself free of the mud and water. Then it turned. It seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to something on the ground.
Monahan turned to his left, which looked to be the shortest way around the pond and broke into a jog just as Bob burst from between the two sheds ahead of him, shouting, “Dooley! Dooley, you hear me?”
“Here! Behind you!” then pointed across the pond. “There! On the far bank!”
Buckshot Bob took off, running toward the dog, and Monahan—who suddenly realized how out of breath he was—slid down and sat right on the ground. He squinted and watched, while across the way, Bob closed in on the dog and whatever it was he was guarding.
“Oh, God!” Bob shouted when he gained the dog’s position. “Robbie, Robbie!” He dropped to his knees, then rose up again, the boy’s limp body dangling in his arms.
Butch Sweeney peeked out front and saw the stage parked there, and the men hurriedly unhitching the spent team. He hadn’t been prepared for it, but he found it exciting just the same. Had Monahan suspected? He couldn’t imagine the old man had, or he would have said something.
He stepped into the kitchen with a grin on his face, ready to greet the new day and the new visitors.
He found four strangers seated around the table along with Julia and Meggie, and Mae trying to keep up with the demand for flapjacks. Bob, Monahan, and Robbie were nowhere in sight, so he nonchalantly pulled out a chair and sat himself down. “I’ll take a stack o’ them flapjacks if you don’t mind, Miss Mae.”
“Certainly, Butch!” she replied. “Let me introduce our stagecoach passengers to you.” She pointed first to a somber fellow in a back-East suit. “This is Dr. Forbes.” Dr. Forbes nodded, and she moved to the next fellow. “And next to him is Billy Burness. Across from them are sitting Mrs. Matthews and Miss Coltrane.” Mae turned to the stove and flipped the flapjacks in their skillet.
“How do, folks?” Sweeney asked, all the while giving Miss Coltrane the eye. Danged if she wasn’t as pretty as a sunset on the prairie! He suddenly wished he’d bothered to put on clean clothes before he came sashaying into the kitchen.
Miss Coltrane started to open her mouth, but Mrs. Matthews, a paunchy, weather-beaten old crone with a thick mustache, beat her to it. “We do quite well, thank you, young man. And what was your name again?”
He swallowed nervously. “I’m Butch Sweeney, Mrs. Matthews, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Matthews?!” she blurted, scratching at the wart on her nose. “No, my dear, I’m Miss Coltrane!” Suddenly, she burst out in a rough guffaw that seemed to go on and on, whereas Butch suddenly wanted to be out in the hayloft where he could quietly put a pistol to his head. “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to—”
Her big, rough hand came to rest, hard, on his back, and knocked the air out of him. “Don’t think twice about it, Butch. Why, she’s as flattered as I am!”
The young woman next to her didn’t look the least bit flattered. In fact, she looked as if she’d like to borrow that head-shooting pistol from Butch and then turn it on Miss Coltrane!
In the end he was saved by Dr. Forbes, who sensed his distress. “Now, Miss Coltrane, let the poor boy eat his breakfast!” He said it with enough doctoral harrumphs of authority that she did, indeed, desist.
Safe for the moment, Butch accepted a stack of flapjacks slathered with butter, and helped himself to the syrup. Giving a whispered “Sorry!” to the pretty Mrs. Matthews before he dug in, he managed to wolf down more than half the stack before Mae suddenly froze in her tracks. With a horrific expression on her face, she stared out the window over the sink.
“Mae?” he said softly, and then again, “Mae?” His tone quieted the travelers.
She didn’t turn toward him. Still staring, her mouth opened, and her voice trembled. “Robbie!”
Sweeney burst out of the kitchen, running full tilt toward the line of small outbuildings to the northeast. He couldn’t see Robbie—or anyone else—but he knew the outbuildings formed a sort of crooked little maze that screened the house from the stock pond.
It wasn’t until he was most of the way to the first building that he heard Monahan’s shout over the sound of his own footsteps and his own panting breath. “Upside down, Bob! Upside down! You gotta drain the water from his lungs!”
He knew then what had happened, and despite his own hollow pants, forced himself into a harder run.
Buckshot Bob had finally got the boy upside down by the time Monahan had reached his side, but he still wasn’t doing it right. The kid was dying before his eyes, and he couldn’t stand for that! He fairly tore the boy from his father’s arms and held him upside down, jouncing him up and down, up and down with hard jerks until the child finally expelled a good amount of muddy fluid with a spasmodic shudder and a strangled cough.
Monahan next laid him on the ground, face-first, and began to pump the rest of the water out of him. When Buckshot Bob figured out what he was doing, Monahan moved aside and let him take over. It was better for the boy to come back to consciousness and find his daddy was saving him, he reckoned. Better his daddy than some beat up old saddle tramp who was only there a few days.
Butch came skidding up beside him, breathless and muttering, “Is he okay? Is he okay?”
The boy was stirring, and Monahan nodded. “He’s fine. Gonna be fine and dandy.” He put a hand on Buckshot Bob’s shoulder and added, “That’s enough, Bob. You pump at him anymore, you’re gonna make him spit up his lungs.”
Smiling like a madman, Bob turned the boy faceup, pulled him up, and crushed him to his chest. “Robbie, my Robbie.” He wept.
Robbie’s arms came up to circle his pa’s neck and he began to weep, too.
“Let’s get him back up to the house,” Monahan said.
Buckshot Bob got to his feet, carrying the boy. They started toward the house before Monahan remembered the dog.
“Take him on back,” Dooley said to Butch. “I’ll take care of the horses.”
And the dog,
he thought. As the others walked back to the house, he cast his gaze about for Blue, and found him not far from where he’d last seen him—standing over the place where he’d dragged the unconscious boy, his coat still dripping with muddy water.
“Damned if you ain’t somethin’ else, dog,” he said quietly, shaking his head. For a moment, he wondered if it was some sort of shift in the eternal equilibrium of things. The dog had lost one boy scarcely older that Robbie, and he had just insured that Robbie kept on breathing—quite literally—for some time to come.
He shook his head again and felt a chill shudder through him. Surely the Good Lord would strike him dead for even thinking . . .
But the Lord didn’t strike him, and he pushed the thought—the whole business—from his mind, squatted down on his haunches, and held out his hand, repeating, “You’re somethin’ else, Blue.”
Wagging its hindquarters, the dog came over to him, sat down, and held forth its wet paw.
“What? You wanna shake my hand?”
The dog waved its paw in the air, and Monahan took it and gave it a firm, pumping shake before he stood up again. “You better come on, Blue. I gotta get them horses, or else find ’em if they run off! And you, you old blue goose, we gotta dig you out from all that mud you’re dryin’ under.” He started toward the backs of the outbuildings with the dog, rear end wiggling, at his heels.