The Trail West (7 page)

At last she took his hand, although grudgingly, and climbed up behind him. “I ain’t stupid,” she muttered into his shoulder so only he could hear. “I know President Lincoln got assassinated at a play. It was
Our American Cousin
and at it was at Ford’s Theatre. So I ain’t stupid.”

Monahan didn’t turn round, but asked, “And why’re you tellin’ me?”

“’Cause I ain’t speakin’ to
him
.”

That evening, they made camp later than usual. Monahan had wanted to get to a wide open area where, if the girl decided to run, she couldn’t get out of sight before they noticed she was gone. According to Sweeney, they were about a day and a half from the town of Iron Creek.

Monahan was disappointed. He was in a toot to get to the ranch he’d been aiming toward in the first place, eager for the immediate prospect of money coming in on a regular basis, and eager for a cot to sleep on most every night. The business with the girl had him all knotted up inside. The nagging feeling that something bad was on its way, and heading straight for him wouldn’t go away.

 

 

About seven miles north and five, maybe six miles east of Monahan’s camp, the Baylor brothers had finally camped for the night after aimlessly wandering a sloppy zigzag through trees and scrub that took them back to within a mile of their starting point. Dev was suddenly jolted awake by his brother’s wild thrashing, creating a racket. As usual, Alf had forgotten to take off his spurs before he hunkered down for the night, and the rowels had gotten hung up in his thin blanket.

Over all the noise of ripping blanket and clanking spurs and his brother’s unintelligible shouts, Dev hollered, “Alf! Alf! Put the cat down! Put the gawdamn kitty down!” When Alf didn’t respond, Dev dragged himself around the embers of their dying fire and shook his brother by the shoulder. “Let go of ol’ Fluffy, Alf. You know he’s Ma’s favorite!”

Usually, that was enough to bring Alf out of it, but it didn’t work. He just started kicking harder, which created more sounds of ripping blanket.

Dev tried again. “You’re dreamin’, Alf,” he said gently. “You’re dreamin’. Now stop kickin’ and fussin’, Alphonse. Settle down. Settle . . . calm down. Shhh, shhh, shhhhh,” he finished, and Alf finally quieted to a loud but regular snore.

Figuring things had settled to a safe decibel level, Dev slouched back to his own side of the fire.

But he had just closed his eyes again when Alf began talking. At first, he thought it was going to be like the night before when Alf had mumbled for an hour or so before finally sinking into a deep and silent sleep. But it was not so. Sleeping Alf—who was very different from Waking Alf, Dev had discovered—was in a talkative mood. He wasn’t making any more sense than usual, but his words were crisp and clear.

“G’day, mite,” Alf said rather quickly, and in a voice at least a register lower than his usual confused and cracking tenor.

Dev hadn’t figured out what kind of accent it was, exactly, on those occasions when he paid it any mind at all. But Alf was consistent, anyway. He used the same slang often enough that Dev thought it sounded sort of British. But if it came from some part of the British Empire, Dev didn’t know where.

“. . . said he’d be diddled iffen that ol’ Papa Croc didn’t carry off ’is leg, the blasted idiot. Oh, he was bleedin’ an’ yellin’ to beat the band, he was. Didn’t last long, rest ’im. Owen, he couldn’t get the gushin’ blood to stop and neither could ol’ Cods. And the guards, they wasn’t no bloody ’elp atall, atall . . .”

Dev frowned at the dash of Cockney. He’d met a Cockney sailor, once—in some waterfront dive back in Boston. Of course, everybody there sounded funny, but the sailor? Everything rhymed, for one thing. “Plates o’ meat, that’s your feet.” Dev recalled that one, because it had taken him so long to figure out.

But the jabbering Alf did when he was sleeping? It was only part Cockney—and part something completely different. Something that came from a place far away from the British Isles or the United States. Or even Canada!

For the millionth time, he told himself that he and Jason never should have taken Alf out of that loony bin.

The next morning, Monahan was up before the dawn, stomping on numb feet and moaning while he rubbed at his head and his neck, and made the other assorted creaks and groans he made every morning. Sweeney, who was just beginning to get accustomed to Monahan’s pre-light uproar, was awakened not by Monahan’s ritual, but by the girl’s reaction to it.

She screamed.

And it wasn’t your everyday, garden variety ‘Help, help, I saw a mouse’ scream, either. It was a ‘Help, help, a whole passel of raping, murdering, wild-eyed Apache just broke through my door with mayhem on their minds, slaying in their hearts, and a whole arsenal of tomahawks and assorted deadly blades tucked in their belts’ kind of screech, with bone-shattering, bloodcurdling, gut-wrenching overtones.

At least, that’s what it sounded like to Sweeney. After a quick look around to make sure there weren’t really any rapacious Apache, he muttered a muted, “Lord have mercy,” and yanked his blanket over his head.

Monahan’s reaction to Julia’s scream was a little different. He spun around on his heel—a real feat, considering he’d barely stomped any blood into it yet—and hissed, “What the
hell
is wrong with you now?!”

“Are you crazy? You’re makin’ too much noise!” the girl said, her hands clasped over her ears.

“Not as much as you,” Monahan mumbled. He began stamping his foot again. “I think you already spooked the bejesus outta Butch, there.” He pointed a finger at Sweeney’s huddled form, barely discernible in the pre-dawn light.

He had seen the young cowboy flinch when the girl screamed, and watched him tunnel down into his blankets a few seconds later. “No use tryin’ to hide, boy. Now that she’s woke up everythin’ within five miles what can kill an’ eat us, we might as well get on with it.”

A grumble came from Sweeney’s general direction, and Monahan took it as an acknowledgement. He turned back to the girl. “Well, Miss Julia, hop to it.”

She glared at him—and he glared right back—until at last she stood up and went into the brush to relieve herself. Or so he guessed. His hands moved to his knee, which was crying out for second place on his “ouch list.” To the slowly moving lump that was the blanketed Butch, he said, “You up, kid?”

“I’m up,” was Sweeney’s muffled reply.

“Well, get a move on. I got a feelin’ we ain’t got time to take breakfast, least not here and now.”

The blanket-man shifted. “Why?”

“Just got a feelin’, that’s all.” Monahan put his hands in the small of his back and began to knead it as best he could.

“Okay.” Sweeney made a small move to indicate he understood.

Monahan went on with his morning ministrations. He had yet to get to his shoulder, and was grateful for no further questions.

 

 

By full morning, they had moved on about three miles. Pleased enough with their progress, Monahan let Sweeney shoot a couple of rabbits. But he made them put another four miles under their horses’ hooves before they could stop and rest.

As relieved—and as hungry—as anyone, Sweeney made a small fire as fast as Julia could tote sticks, and quickly skinned, cleaned, and roasted the jackrabbits. The dog occupied his time by tossing the pelts high into the air, then leaping to catch them. And Monahan kept busy by tying out their horses in the knee-high grass until lunch was ready.

It wasn’t that he was antisocial. Well, he was, but most especially, he was putting off seeing the girl again. For some reason, she left a bad taste in his mouth. She had ridden behind his saddle for the most of the morning, and she hadn’t said one word to him. Or to General Grant, for that matter. A person would at least figure she’d thank an old horse for going above and beyond the call of duty.

“They’re ready,” Sweeney announced as Monahan walked back into camp. He held out a roasted rabbit on a stick.

“You got a plate for that?”

Sweeney sighed and handed him a plate, then the roasted rabbit.

Monahan took it and sat, cross-legged in the grass beside him. He pulled out his pocketknife and cut the roasted buck or doe in half, and then in quarters. “Heads up,” he said, and when the girl turned his way, he tossed one of the front quarters to her. He threw one of the back quarters to Blue before he let himself sink his teeth into the other.

The juice ran down his chin, and he smiled. “Good jackrabbit, Butch,” he managed while he chewed. He’d swear it tasted almost as good as those old cottontails back in Missouri.

Now, why on earth had he thought of that?

 

 

About the same time Sweeney had a change of heart . . . and a pang of conscience . . . and began slicing up his jackrabbit to share with the girl and the dog, too, the Baylor brothers were riding into the meadow where Dooley and his crew had camped the night before.

Alf thumbed back his hat and slouched forward, his forearms folded on the saddle horn. He stared intently at the ground before them.

Dev let a few seconds pass before he let out a snort. “What?” he asked derisively.

Alf made no attempt to defend himself. He simply shook his head slowly, raised his head, and looked at his brother. “I’s flummoxed.”

“Well, of course you are. You always are.” Then he thought better of it and in a friendlier tone, Dev asked, “What’s botherin’ you this time, Alf?”

“Well, first we was followin’ one man, then all of a sudden he turned into two fellers an’ a dog. And now there’s a kid with ’em.” Alf shook his head. “I just can’t . . .”

“Fathom it?” Dev asked. To tell the truth, he was perplexed, too, but it wouldn’t pay to let on to Alf. The only things
he
remembered with any surety were that he couldn’t play that high note in “Camptown Races” and his brother’s mistakes
.
He had a tendency to bring up those with alarming frequency.

Well, Dev thought so, anyway.

“Yeah, that’s good, Dev.
Fathom
.” Alf’s face brightened. “I like that word.” As was his habit, he repeated the word over and over, beneath his breath. But Dev heard and, as always, it pissed him off.

Alf didn’t notice, though. He stuck out an arm, pointing to the garbled story left by footprints in the earth. “Those look like a kid’s to you?”

Dev took a long time and a deep breath before he said, “No. Looks like the tracks of a girl’s shoe.” They were short and narrow, with too thin a heel and too finely chiseled a toe for a boy’s boot. But why would that brother-murdering Monahan be carrying so many people? Dev wondered. He figured the other man must be good with a gun, and perhaps the dog was his. But now Monahan had added a girl to the mix?

“I just don’t get it,” Dev said, giving his head a slow shake.

“Mayhap she’s a fairy,” Alf whispered.

She didn’t have a horse, Dev was thinking. That was for certain. Only two horses had ridden in, and only two sets of tracks led out. He’d been right, then. He’d told Alf the faint noise that had woken them before the dawn wasn’t any owl’s hoot. He smirked. He’d bet they were messin’ with her. Otherwise, why would she holler so loud they’d heard her clear back up at their own camp?

Beside him, Alf was still staring at the ground, muttering, “She could be a haunt, ’cept haunts don’t leave no footprints, I doesn’t think. Dev, do haunts leave footprints?”

Dev took the course of least resistance and smacked Alf across the face with his hat. “C’mon.” He rode west out of the camp, following the trail of bent and broken grass.

Alf was right behind him. “But Dev . . .”

“Of course ghosts don’t leave footprints,” Dev said without bothering to turn toward him. “Did you ever see a ghost with feet?”

“Ain’t never seen no haunt,” a dejected Alf replied.

“Well, then don’t bother me with stupid questions.” Dev checked his pocket watch. “And we’ll be stopping for lunch in about a half hour.”

There was relief in Alf’s voice. “All right, Dev. Good thinkin’.”

But Dev didn’t hear him. He was thinking . . . and busy pushing his horse into a slow lope. They hadn’t lit a breakfast fire, which meant they’d cut out early, and with a purpose. They were headed for Iron Creek. He’d lay cash money on it.

Monahan had hurried them the rest of that day, hurried them to the point of exhaustion. But to his mind it had been worth it. He couldn’t see much of the town as they rode in. Just that it wasn’t much of a town. Naturally, Julia didn’t say a word. At nightfall, he had taken over ferrying her, much to Butch’s delight, and he swore, it was like riding double with a big sandbag.

But he’d been thinking she was acting the way he would’ve acted if he’d been in her situation, if he’d been just a little snip of a girl and all, and had been picked up and bossed around by Sweeney—who was at least a foot taller than her—and himself. And he was even taller than Sweeney, especially with his boots on. He wondered who had legal charge of her. He’d never thought to ask.

Sweeney stopped in front of a dark building, which, by its scent and size, could only be the livery. Lost in his thoughts, Monahan stopped just in time to avoid riding right over the top of him.

From behind, the girl said a cranky, “Hey!” She slid down, then looked back up at Monahan. “I’m gonna have me enough trouble tonight without you crashin’ me in the middle of the street!”

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he muttered as he stepped down off General Grant. He rubbed the gelding’s neck. “Sorry, big fella.”

Sweeney dismounted and walked ahead a bit, peering into the building’s one visible window. “Don’t look like anybody’s to home.”

“Well, best turn ’em out into the corral, then.” Monahan began to uncinch his saddle. He kept an eye on the girl, but it wasn’t necessary. She leaned back against the corral’s fence like she was nailed to it, which made him worry all the more about just what, exactly, they had brought her back to face.

Once they had stripped the tack off their mounts, slung their saddles over the top rail, and collected their saddlebags, Sweeney spoke. “Well, I reckon gettin’ the gal home’s at the top of our list.”

“Let’s think about that for a second there, Butch,” Monahan said.

Sweeney cocked his brows.

“We don’t even know where we’re takin’ her, first off. Second, it’s near ten at night, and her kin’s bound to be sleepin’. And third, I say we take her to the hotel and get her a room. On my nickel, boy, don’t be lookin’ so thunderstruck.”

The girl smiled wide for the first time since their acquaintance, and Monahan started ahead before he realized that he didn’t have a clue where the hotel was. “Julia?”

She ran the extra two steps to his side and grabbed his arm. “This way. “ She gave him a tug to the right.

 

 

“Julia, does your Uncle Kirby know you’re out at all hours with these strangers?” the clerk asked, squinting at the two men across from him. He turned up the lamp a little and took a closer look at Sweeney. “Sorry, Butch. Didn’t recognize you. What you doin’ back in town so soon?”

Sweeney smiled and turned the big book on the counter toward himself. He took the pen from its well and signed
Butch Sweeney
firmly and with a flourish. “Tryin’ to rent a bed with a roof over it, Abner.”

He handed the pen to Monahan, who took it, dipped it in the well, and signed his name beneath Sweeney’s. In turn, he handed the pen to Julia.

But the clerk snatched the pen from her hand. “She don’t need to sign. Not unless she’s aged a few years since I last saw her.”

Monahan gave a quick nod. “Butch and me need a double, and a single for the girl.”

“With a pass-through connect, right?”

Monahan’s face scrunched up in offense. “You askin’ do I want a connecting door to Julia’s room?”

The blanching clerk scuffled back and visually gulped.

Monahan figured he must look more imposing than he felt. Either that, or the clerk was feeling guiltier about something than he was letting on. The more he thought about it, Monahan put his money on the latter. He shot a quick look in Sweeney’s direction, and read much the same thing on his face.

He figured he could push the clerk for more details, but it was late and he was tired. He didn’t want to get into anything. Not at the moment, anyway. All he wanted—besides making sure the girl was tucked up safe and sound—was a soft bed . . . and to be left alone.

As he was mulling things over, the clerk slid keys atop the desk and pushed them toward him. Monahan picked up the one marked 2A and asked, “Second floor?”

“Yes, sir,” came the nervous answer.

Monahan nodded in reply, then handed the key to the girl. As an afterthought, he gave her his sidearm, making certain the clerk saw the transfer. “You know how to use this?” At her slight nod, he gave further instructions. “We’ll be down to give you a chance at breakfast around 8:00, all right?”

The girl smiled, her shoulders slack with relief. “Yes, sir, and yes, sir.” She gave a stronger nod of satisfaction. “See you fellers in the morning.”

She looked at the clerk, who pointed toward the door beside the stairs. “To the left. Number’s on the door.”

She nodded and headed to her room, leaving the three of them—two tired and one terrified—standing in the lobby staring at each other.

“Where’s our room?” Sweeney asked, more to cut the tension than anything else.

Monahan fingered the other key. “Upstairs, I reckon.”

The desk clerk appeared to have been struck deaf and dumb, but mustered the strength to poke his thumb toward the stairs.

Noticing the motion, Monahan muttered, “Yeah, upstairs.” Leaning over the counter he spoke in a lower tone. “The gal best be fit as a fiddle come mornin’, you got me, Abner?”

The quivering desk clerk managed a “Yes, sir,” then leaned back against the wall and slowly slid downward until he came into contact with the floor.

Monahan nodded curtly. “Night, then.” He followed Sweeney up the stairs.

 

 

Outside town a couple of miles to the north, a wooden shack surrounded by smaller shacks and a lean-to sat along the dry, rocky creek bed. The usual soft scuttling of tiny animals moving across the forest floor had stilled, leaving the night quiet. No insect song came from the trees, no stomps or rustles, lows or whinnies wafted up from the barn. Only silence filled the air.

The interior of the shack was dark, so dark the moon beamed like a searchlight as it shined through the small parlor window. Julia felt engulfed by the silence—as if it were a predator who had found its prey. Her.

Then, as if somebody somewhere had thrown an enormous switch, noise and hubbub and cacophony came at her, flooding over her like a wall of thick mucus, engulfing her in its too-familiar stickiness and stench at the same time calming her with its familiarity.

She heard a new sound.

Someone was coming.

She whimpered.
Not again.

Julia whirled toward the front door just as it burst inward and revealed—

She woke abruptly. Stiff, sweating, and terrified, her scream was muffled by the pillow.

 

 

Across town, Sheriff Milton J. Carmichael sat in the saloon, nursing a beer. It had been a long day. A long week, come to think about it. Making it longer was Kirby Smithers, who had come waltzing into the office to report his niece missing. It would have been nice if he’d bothered to report it the first day she was gone.

That would have been Tuesday, Carmichael reckoned, taking another long draw on his beer. The day the posse finally made it out to the Morgan’s spread and found what those murderous Apache had left behind.

His lips pursed with horror and distaste while he gave his head a slow shake.
Foul things, Apache. The government ought to raise the premium on their scalps.
He never should have come West. He should have listened to Martha and gone into business at her father’s hardware. He’d probably have at least four kids by now—maybe six! She had always looked like sound breeding stock.

Had he listened to Martha, he’d probably be the sole proprietor of Gary, Indiana’s oldest and finest hardware, too.

His thoughts continued in the dark vein. Some other feller had probably already stepped into his role. Some other feller had taken his place and was living his life. Some other feller was the Hardware King of Indiana.

Well, God bless him, whoever he is.
The thought was halfhearted.

He brightened.
Hope the poor sod is takin’ good care o’ Martha’s bunions.
And he laughed out loud.

“Somebody write a joke in the bottom of your beer mug?”

Carmichael looked up to find Butch Sweeney standing beside him, and immediately frowned. “Ain’t you supposed to be someplace else? Like, somewhere far off?”

Sweeney tipped his hat. Without expression, he said, “Thanks for the welcome. ’Preciate it.”

Carmichael unceremoniously drained his beer and stood up, which put his nose directly level with Sweeney’s armpit. He made a foul face. “You stink like a horse what’s rolled in the manure pile, Sweeney!”

Sweeney, still expressionless, looked down at him. “Beg your pardon, Sheriff Carmichael?”

Carmichael opened his mouth, but closed it without uttering a word. It was too late, he was too tired, and he plain just wasn’t up to it. He pushed past Sweeney and silently started the short walk toward home.

 

 

Sweeney had waited until Monahan nodded off before he’d let his jumpy nerves take over and headed to the saloon. He watched the sheriff leave, then helped himself to the chair the man had just vacated. He signaled the barkeep for a whiskey. He figured to wash it down with a beer, which he ordered when the first drink was delivered.

As the bartender clomped back toward the bar, Sweeney raised his glass. “To Iron Creek—the town I hoped I’d never have to see again.” He gulped down the shot and was immediately sorry. It went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t stop coughing. Tears came to his eyes and he bent at the waist, hands flat on the table, when somebody began to pound him on the back without mercy.

“Hey!” he managed, still coughing. He tried speaking again. “Stop . . . it . . . dagnab . . . you!” The words came out separated by whoops and gasps for air. He whirled around.

“
Dagnab
me?” Deborah laughed. “Who you been hangin’ ’round with, Big Butch?”

He flushed and returned her grin, shrugging. “I’m awful damn glad to see you, Deborah.”

“I was beginnin’ to think I’d have to get used to life without you.” She pursed her lips into a pout. “Sheriff Carmichael was just in here . . .” She twisted her head, looking for him. “Well, he was in here a minute ago. Anyhow, he said you rode off west with some feller they found out to the Morgans’ spread.” She wrapped her shoulders in her arms, pointing her index fingers out to the side. “Oh, those Apache! They’re so horrible!”

With the sinking feeling he was about to be taken advantage of yet again, Sweeney pulled out the chair next to him. “Sit down, Deborah.”

She grinned and quickly sat next to him. Without asking or looking, she raised an arm over her head and began to lazily circle her hand.

Sweeney knew the drill. She would be served room temperature tea in a whiskey glass, for which he would be charged a premium whiskey price. He figured by the time he’d gotten that one puzzled out, he could’ve bought a whole damn tea plantation. He reached over, took hold of her arm, and pulled it back down to her side. “None of that, if you don’t mind. If I’m rememberin’ right, it was those weak tea whiskeys that got me in trouble in the first place.”

She had the sense to look a little guilty, and let out a long breath before she said, “Yeah. I told you before, Butch, it was just that—”

He held up his hands. “I know, Deb, I know.” He became aware of someone standing on the other side of him. He turned and discovered it was the bartender, with his beer in his hand. “That was fast, Emmitt.”

The barkeep set down the beer glass. “Two bits.”

“Oh, I been fine, too,” Sweeney said as he dug a hand into his pocket for change. He found the right coins and placed the money in Emmitt’s palm.

Without any comment except a quick glance at his hand to make certain his money was all there, the barkeep left them.

“Chatty as always, I see.” Sweeney took a long, grateful draw on his beer, then turned back to the girl, who was following Emmitt’s retreat with her eyes. To the side of her face, he said, “I see Emmitt’s still workin’ nights. Mordecai ain’t found nobody to replace him, yet?”

Languidly, Deborah turned back toward him. “Didn’t know he was lookin’ to.”

Well, she probably didn’t, now that he thought about it. She’d always been a little shy on brains. In fact, he was surprised she was still working at Clancy’s Bar.

Sweeney had been away nearly a week and couldn’t believe Mordecai Clancy—that penny pinching son of a shanty Irishman who owned the place, and who had been the recipient of the sweat of Sweeney’s brow these past six months—hadn’t come up with an excuse yet!

Some people, he thought, taking another pull on his beer.