The Trail West (15 page)

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 S
ULLIVAN’S
S
ARSAPARILLA
—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.”

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 holes 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.

Sweeney helped him with the body, and then they unloaded the hooch from the burro and shut him in the corral for the time being. They unhitched their three horses and settled them in the barn where they discovered Vince’s horse. He was an old bangtail gelding, a solid blue roan, and hungry looking. Sweeney grained him good and set out hay and fresh, clear water for the horses and the burro.

Blue kept an eye on them, as if monitoring the proceedings.

After they’d taken care of the horses, Monahan took pity on Sweeney. “All right. Back to the saloon, again.”

They started across the road, and Sweeney, who hadn’t said much in the last hour or so, asked, “What the hell just happened?”

Monahan slid him a glance, like he was looking at an idiot. “We just took care of the stock, Butch.”

Sweeney grumbled, “I’m talking about the whole thing, Dooley.”

They gained the other side of the street and the saloon. Flies were already crawling over the dead man’s face and were thick on the bloody head. Sweeney looked away and stepped through the batwing doors. He went to his chair, sat down, and faced Monahan. “Dooley? You gonna tell me, or what?”

“Don’t know exactly what it is you want me to tell you, son.”

Sweeney raised his voice in frustration. “What just happened, and why, and how come we’re any of us still alive?”

Julia, still sitting where they’d left her, put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes closed.

Monahan lay his head down on the floor—well, leastwise on his saddle, which was serving as a pillow, as usual—and closed his eyes. They had done what they had come to do, and he couldn’t make it more simple that that. He was still alive and Vince George was out front, drawing flies, and that was nothing more than a whim of fate. One of the fates had chosen to smile upon Monahan for a change.

It was not often fate shrugged off a whim in his direction, especially in his favor, and he intended to sit back and enjoy it while he could. He had explained it to Sweeney the best and only way he knew how, and the boy had accepted it. The girl had been easier. He didn’t have to tell her anything. She had just closed her eyes in that
woman
way—he didn’t know how else to describe it—and it was understood, just like that.

On the other hand, Sweeney had seemed to accept it, but he was still sitting up at a table, nursing a bourbon and contemplating the night sky through the open doors.

Oh well,
Dooley thought.
Whether he can fathom it or not, it’s done. And I’m goin’ to sleep.
He settled himself more comfortably on the floor, wondering that he’d remembered a big chunk of his past—a miracle in its own right—and had scored a victory over a demon from it.

He gave his head a little shake, snorted out air, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was May the second, a day to remember, all right.

Dev and Alf Baylor rode into Yuma, stopping just long enough to pick up word about travelers fitting the descriptions of Monahan and his friends, right down to the dog, and to spot an old “friend” in the prison yard.

Alf was about to call out and raise his arm in greeting—and alert everyone in the surrounding area that they were on the owlhoot trail—but Dev stopped him just in time.

Alf never made things any easier.

He was running true to form an hour later when they ran across a fellow’s campsite between the side of the road—which had petered out into a trail by then—and the river. He was a big fellow, cooking his beans and didn’t seem happy to see them.

Alf rode right over and slid down off his horse. “Howdy!” he said, holding out his hand.

Dev cringed, remembering advice he’d heard from someone, somewhere.
Never, never offer your hand to a stranger, for reasons too obvious to go into.

Luckily, the stranger ignored Alf’s offer. “If you boys’re plannin’ to rob me, you’re gonna be plumb disappointed.”

“No, sir,” Dev answered right off. Unlike his brother, he had wisely stayed mounted. “Didn’t even plan to stop. Sorry to bother you. C’mon, Alf.”

Alf simply sank down onto his heels and asked, “You run across an old geezer name o’ Monahan? He’s ridin’ with a young feller and a gal—she’s just a kid—and some kinda dog? Got word they were headed down this way.” Having finished his speech, he smiled in self-congratulation.

The man looked up. “Your friend call you Alf? That your name?”

Alf nodded.

“Well, it’s like this, Alf. They’re headed down to a little wide spot in the road called Heber’s Kiss. Probably there already. You find ’em before me, you can do whatever you want with ’em, but leave the girl be. She’s mine.”

The chilling tone sent ice shooting down Dev’s spine and clear to the bottom of his boots . . . but was completely lost on Alf.

Dev wondered what on earth the girl was to the man—kin or hired help? He was pretty intense for her to be just hired help, though. She wasn’t somebody just doing his dishes or sweeping his floors. Mayhap she was a runaway. “We’ll leave the gal be, mister. Got no quarrel with her.”

The big man nodded. “Name’s Smithers. Kirby Smithers.”

Dev nodded in acknowledgement. “We’re the Baylors. I’m Dev. This is—”

“Alf!” he cried, jumping to his feet.

“And Alf,” Dev repeated, shaking his head slowly.

Kirby Smithers hiked a brow, but said nothing.

He had been grossly misnamed, Dev thought, with uncharacteristic sympathy. What kind of parents would give the moniker of traveling notions salesman to a rough fellow better suited to busting broncs or wrestling steers than to promenading a poodle in the park somewhere?

“C’mon, Alf,” he said. “Let’s leave Mr. Smithers alone.”

“But, Dev—”

“Now, Alf.”

Reluctantly, Alf remounted and tipped his hat to Smithers, who did little more than scowl.

“Thank you kindly,” Dev said. “We’ll heed your advice about the girl.”