The Trail West (6 page)

But her babies were, if Monahan was any judge at all. He forded the rocky shallows of the creek and crossed to the other bank, stopping just a few yards northeast of the place where Blue’s wiggling butt stuck out of the cave, high above.

“What’re you gonna do, shoot him?” an alarmed Sweeney asked.

Monahan craned his head up. “Blue!” he called firmly. “Get on down here, Blue!”

The dog turned around so his head was sticking out of the hollow. He barked rapidly several times in succession before he whirled round again and showed them his tail feathers.

Monahan hollered again, but the only thing he got for his trouble was a repeat performance.

“Dad-gum it!” Monahan swore loudly. There was no immediate danger, and he slid his rifle home again. “Get down right now, you rapscallious villain!”

Sweeney swallowed hard. “You figure a cougar’s got its young’uns in there?”

Monahan looked up the wall. He’d be blamed if he could figure how that fool dog had climbed up there in the first place! Of course, he was half mountain goat, if the way he’d taken that slide was any indication.

“I’m goin’ on without you!” he called up to the dog. “I ain’t got time to shilly-shally, and I ain’t gettin’ no younger!” He reined General Grant away and set out at a trot.

Sweeney quickly followed. “You just gonna leave him there, with a she-cat coming back any second? Mayhap a wolf?” He twisted his head back and forth between Monahan and the dog, who was rapidly disappearing in the distance. “How can you just leave him?”

“Oh, he’ll be along.” Monahan figured the dog would just give up on whatever it had found and follow.

So he wasn’t surprised when, not three minutes later, the dog came galloping up from behind them. However, it did surprise him a good bit when the dog raced about ten yards ahead and faced off the horses, barking. Sweeney made the mistake of trying to ride on past him, and Monahan, who had held up General Grant right off—having been through such antics before—laughed right out loud when old Blue went to work on that Chili horse of Sweeney’s.

“Got an eye, don’t he?” he called, still chuckling.

“Jesus Christ!” shouted Sweeney, who had nearly been thrown when Chili made an unexpected stop followed by a half rear. The horse was tense as a fiddle string, reminding Monahan for all the world of a rabbit caught in the headlamp of an oncoming train. Blue stood there, head low, legs splayed, ready to keep that horse from going one step farther, let alone right or left.

“Dog, is this gonna be a habit with you?” Monahan called. Then he added to Sweeney, “Just rein that roan back this way, son.”

The moment Sweeney turned Chili back, the dog raced around him and back to Monahan, barked twice, and took off back down the canyon.

“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Sweeney asked angrily. He mopped sweat from his brow although the morning was still cool. “He spooked Chili so bad he near to dumped me! What in tarnation’s givin’ him fits?”

“Couldn’t guess,” Monahan said. “Reckon I shoulda thrown a rope over him while I could. But I didn’t, so I reckon we’d best take a look, after all.”

“And I suppose I’m the lucky one who’ll have to go climbin’ up there after him,” Sweeney groused. “You bein’ old and all.”

Monahan frowned. “After that crack, I reckon you’re elected, all right.”

Blue had stopped about fifty yards away, and was barking furiously.

“All right, all right!” Monahan shouted with a shake of his head. “Don’t go gettin’ yourself in an uproar!” He showed the General some knee and followed the dog, Sweeney on his heels.

By the time they were within a hundred yards of the place, Blue was scaling the cliff. Monahan could see a steep path he hadn’t noticed before. As they rode closer, he began to make out steps, crudely cut into the stone and worn by time. He figured the place to be an old Indian hideout, long deserted.

At least, he hoped it was.

“Put a loop on him from here,” Sweeney suggested. He was eyeing the cliff as if he hadn’t remembered it being so tall or so steep.

“How long you think my rope is anyway, boy?” Monahan asked.

Blue had disappeared into the cave entirely by the time they reined in the horses and Sweeney got down. He slung his rope over his arm and grumbled, “If I get up there and find a bunch of pretty kitties aspittin’ and ahissin’ at me, I’m gonna have that dog for my dinner.”

“Thought you wanted adventure,” Monahan said, holding back a smile.

“I like hearin’ about it,” muttered Sweeney. “Not so much havin’ it.”

“Don’t worry.” Monahan pulled his rifle from the boot once more. “I see anything with fangs comin’ your way, I’ll shoot.”

Scowling, Sweeney began to make his way up the crumbling steps. He was about halfway up when he stopped and stood stock-still.

Monahan heard it and his eyes suddenly left the canyon rims, abruptly coming to focus on the opening above.

The dog backed slowly out of the cave, growling.

“What the hell you gone and turned up, you mangy ol’ cow dog?” Monahan muttered to himself as Sweeney began to slowly climb higher.

Nobody heard him, so nobody answered.

All he could do was watch Sweeney make his way up the cliff and pray. Mostly, he prayed for that damn fool dog, although he’d never have admitted it.

Sweeney climbed higher and higher, sometimes missing a step or two, sometimes coming to a clear spot where he could take four or five steps in a row with nothing crumbling or breaking off underfoot, until he was even with the dog’s backside.

Monahan held his breath. Just as he began to whisper, “Let him know you’re there.” he saw Sweeney’s mouth move and his hand lift to stroke the dog’s leg. “Atta boy, Butch,” he heard himself whisper as Sweeney hoisted himself up the last few steps and stood next to the dog, peering into the cave.

Sweeney took a few steps forward and spoke again. It was louder than before, but still not loud enough for Monahan to make out any words. In fact, Monahan was swearing at the younger man and himself when Sweeney suddenly turned around, looked down at him with a grin as wide as Christmas morning, and hollered, “You ain’t gonna believe this!” He let out a hoot and disappeared into the cave before Monahan had a chance to ask—let alone formulate—any questions.

The cowboy sat his horse, his hands trembling, while echoed murmurs of Sweeney’s voice drifted down to him. Not that he could tell what the kid was saying, and not that he could explain why snatches of it sounded for all the world like he had a gal up there, or maybe a child.

He chided himself for making up tales as a voice—definitely female—shouted, “I said to leave go o’ me!” Sweeney emerged from the cave . . . with his arms full of skirts and a blanket and within them, a flailing female figure. “Leave me go! Do it now, you side-steppin’ piss-drizzler!” the girl shouted again.

Sweeney stopped walking. He twisted up his mouth and said loud enough for Monahan to hear, “You close up that nasty gob o’ your’n, missy, or I’ll drop you right here and now, all thirty feet down!”

A pretty, freckled face surrounded by billows of russet curls parted the blanket, took a look downward over Sweeney’s arm, and gasped. The woman threw her arms around his neck, and ducked her head into his chest with a strangled shout. “Don’t you
dare
drop me!”

Monahan held back a chuckle as Sweeney made a slow and careful descent with Blue leading the way—and stopping every four or five steps to look up and check on him. “That’s right, buddy
,”
Monahan whispered as his grin burst forth in a soft bubble of laughter. “Like you wouldn’t hear him hollerin’ bloody murder if he fell.”

After a few false steps that sent him skidding, Sweeney finally reached the bottom of the makeshift staircase and swung the girl’s legs to the ground. She shrieked at the movement, terrified she was being hurled over the cliff, but as soon as her toes touched the earth, she slugged Sweeney in the chest, nearly knocking all the air out of him.

She wheeled toward Monahan, still seated on his horse. “And who are you?” she demanded. “His daddy? This your idea of family doin’s? Ridin’ after little girls and rapin’ ’em? What do you do? Take turns holdin’ ’em down?”

Her words were bold, but her jaw trembled. Fear crept into her eyes.

Monahan growled out, “I don’t molest no girl children whose name I don’t even know, missy. Or who appear to be too tender to spell it.”

That last part got her dander up, all right, and she hollered at him, “It’s Julia. Julia Alice Cooperman. You want me to spell it out for you?”

Behind her, Sweeney had finally caught his breath. “Where the devil’s your horse, Julie?”

“It’s Julia,” she snapped. “And I don’t have one.”

“How in tarnation did you get out here, then?” Monahan asked, perplexed.

“Flyin’ carpet?” asked Sweeney snidely.

Ignoring Sweeney, she twisted back toward Monahan. “Had one. He up and died ’bout a half mile due west of here.”

Monahan gave a nod and a grunt. “You et lately?”

When she didn’t answer—too proud, he guessed—he swung down off General Grant and immediately searched around in his saddlebags until his fingers found what he wanted. “You like bacon?” he asked as he pulled out the last of it—just enough for a meal.

Julia’s stomach growled at that moment and she sheepishly nodded. “Butch, fetch us some kindlin’, would you?”

Sweeney turned and walked back to the brush. Once the boy was out of earshot, Monahan said, “That there’s Butch Sweeney. He’s the one what saved your life.”

The girl’s face wadded up like a dried apple. “That’s real funny. He didn’t do nothin’ for me that I couldn’t’ve done for my own self.”

“You got water?”

She hesitated. “’Course I do.”

Monahan paused before he said, “Sure you do. Just like you got a fancy sit-down dinner for six in your hip pocket.” He’d lost track of the dog, but heard a soft woof coming from his left side. Quickly he added, “Sorry. Dinner for seven.”

Miss Julia Cooperman crossed her arms firmly across her flat chest, blew out a huffing snort, then sat down directly where she stood. “I ain’t sharin’ my lunch with no dog.”

Her statement only served to remind him that he and Sweeney ought to have something to eat, too. He turned once again toward his saddlebags and began to dig. Beside him, Blue licked his lips.

“Just a minute, old son,” Monahan muttered, and kept on digging.

 

 

Butch Sweeney licked his fingers. “Got any more o’ that bacon?” His begging look almost out-pitifulled that of the blue dog’s, and Monahan tossed them each a thick strip.

The last two, as a matter of fact.

“All the beggin’ in the whole wide world ain’t gonna do you no good now, Blue,” he said to the pleading cow dog. “Ain’t no more of it, period. You can have the last a’ the grease with a biscuit, but that’s all I got.”

The dog leaned toward him and whimpered softly, jealously eyeing the empty pan. It glistened with melted fat.

“All right, all right,” Monahan muttered. He gave his head a shake, then snatched the last biscuit out of its pan and broke in into chunks, which he then dropped into the bacon fat. He gave it a stir, tested it with his finger to make sure it had cooled enough for the tender mouth of a greedy dog, then shoved the pan toward Blue.

Shaking and trembling as if he hadn’t just eaten half a pound of bacon and half a dozen biscuits already, Blue didn’t move an inch closer to the pan until Monahan said, “Okay.”

The old man shook his head and chuckled. Butch Sweeney broke his own silence to mumble, “Whoever trained that dog sure weren’t no slacker.”

Across the small fire, the girl—who wasn’t much past twelve—asked, “Where are you fellers headed, anyhow?”

“South,” said Sweeney at the same time Monahan said, “West.”

The girl’s face twisted up before she said, “Which is it?”

They spoke again and the answers were the same. Monahan turned toward Sweeney and repeated himself more firmly. “West. Why the hell would we go any other way? She comes from the west and she belongs there. You said so yourself, didn’t you?”

Suddenly, the girl shot to her feet. “I thought you looked familiar! You been workin’ in the store. For Mr. Nils Gunderson. You busted up the saloon and been workin’ it off in trade.” Her tone was accusatory, but at the same time, a little admiration seeped through.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Sweeney looked at Monahan and explained. “The whole town’s in an’ outta there. Can’t expect me to remember everybody. And what you mean, I told you where she was from? I never said no such thing!”

Monahan nodded. “Never said you did. Only asked if you did or didn’t.”

Unexpectedly, Sweeney laughed. “Well, damn. You did, didn’t you?”

But the girl didn’t. Little Miss Julia gave her head a haughty shake and said, “If you think I’m goin’ back there, you’re sore mistook. I never want to see that lousy excuse for a town again so long as I live. Been a lot done to me, and I done bad back when I had me a chance, but now I want a whole new life. Want it where nobody knows me, where I can start fresh without my uncle’s reputation colorin’ the way folks act an’ what they say. Wanna go somewhere fresh that’s just startin’ out so’s I can start out with it.”

Monahan folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against a rock. “And how you plan to earn your way whilst you’re doin’ all this startin’ over?”

“Anything I can,” she said right out. “Keep books or wait on ladies in a store. Work slingin’ hash or mixin’ drinks. I ain’t even opposed to . . . you know, makin’ my livin’ on my back if I gotta.”

The offer was made more boldly than Monahan believed she intended it, but he simply nodded his head. “Attitude like that’s gonna draw the fellers in like bees to honey.”

“Oh, shut your pie hole, old-timer.”

He took momentary umbrage to the word
old-timer
until it dawned on him that she was right. He let it pass.

Sweeney, on the other hand, wasn’t so forgiving. “Who you callin’ names, you baby she-cat?”

Just like that, she pounced on him, letting loose with a barrage of unaimed and unanswered blows and kicks. As she pounded, she shouted, “Don’t you go callin’ me names!”

Despite his occasional shocked look when she contrived to land a blow that actually hurt him, Sweeney managed a big grin and taunted, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty . . .”

“You peckerwood idiot!” she screamed, hitting and kicking as hard and wild as she could—which was growing pretty danged wild and hard.

More in order to save the young cowboy some face than anything else, Monahan climbed to his feet and stood over the girl. “That’ll be about enough, Miss Julia.” Grabbing the back of her shirt and the waistband of her skirts, he lifted her straight off Sweeney, still kicking like an airborne bronc and trying to punch the living daylights out of him. She landed a good, sound slap to his cheek, then spat in his face.

Monahan had turned around and was setting the girl on the ground, feet first, when the air behind him moved with a little localized
whoosh.
He planted a hand on Julia’s shoulder and held her away at arm’s length, then twisted his head toward Sweeney. He was on his feet and looked very angry. Maybe not angry enough to kill her, but Monahan wasn’t taking any chances. He stretched out his other arm and planted it in the center of Sweeney’s chest, stopping him as he stepped forward.

“Let me have at her,” Sweeney muttered, never taking his eyes off the girl’s. “Just lemme at her for five lousy minutes.”

Monahan noted that the girl had stopped pushing forward. Most of the pressure was coming from Sweeney “Butch, ease up. She’s just a kid.”

Sweeney growled, “Yeah, just a smart-mouthed, sassy little wench askin’ for a whippin’ kinda kid!” He put pressure on Monahan’s arm.

“Maybe you’re right, Butch, but it’s not up to you or me to decide. It’s up to her folks. That is, if anybody claims her.”

He felt her jerk toward him again and he snarled, “Now, knock it off, the both o’ you, or you’re both gonna see some whompin’ like you ain’t never dreamed to see afore!” With that, he pulled them toward him an inch or so, then thrust them apart.

Sweeney was unaffected, but Julia landed on her fanny in the weeds.
Well, at least I can still push a little girl down,
Monahan thought ruefully. He staggered, and felt Sweeney catch his arm.

“Careful, there, Monahan.”

The old cowboy shook him off like a dog shakes off pond water. He didn’t want sympathetic words. He wanted twenty years back, that’s what he wanted. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where to complain, though. He’d tried the Lord, tried him a lot, but nobody ever answered. “I’m alright, dammit! Now, let’s get this lunch mess cleaned up and be on our way.”

Sweeney stepped right up, getting his tin plate, utensils, and cup scrubbed out with sand, wiped down, and packed away. Monahan, who cleaned up after the dog as well as himself, was ready a few minutes later.

The girl hadn’t moved an inch.

“C’mon, Julia,” Sweeney said. “Shake a leg.”

“Ain’t goin’.”

Incredulous, Sweeney stopped fiddling with his horse’s bridle and turned toward her. “You ain’t goin’? Why not?”

Monahan watched the girl, waiting for her response. When none was forthcoming, he finally said, “Julia, you’re goin’ with us whether you aim to or not. Now, get up on your feet and get crackin’.”

She looked up directly at him. “Said, I ain’t goin’. You can’t make me. I know my rights.”

Despite himself, Monahan grinned. “An’ just what makes you think you got rights?”

She looked even more annoyed with him. “Mr. President Lincoln freed the slaves, didn’t he? I figure that includes me, since I feel like a slave mosta the time.”

“Don’t matter a whit how you feel,” Monahan said, trying to rein himself back to reasonability. “You’re a minor and a girl to boot. And it ain’t ‘Mr. President Lincoln’. It’s Mr. Lincoln or Mr. President, if you’re talkin to him direct. And Mr. Lincoln or President Lincoln if he ain’t there but you’re just talkin about him.”

“What about him?” she demanded, shooting her finger toward Sweeney and confusing Monahan. “He can’t be more ’n eighteen!”

Sweeney threw a leg over his saddle. “First off, I’m twenty-three. Second, you can call me Mr. Sweeney or you can call me Butch, but you got no call to be sayin’ a word about Mr. Abraham Lincoln, former President of these here United States and its territories, on account of he’s murdered, dead, and buried. Understood?”

Julia lowered her finger, but didn’t speak. She kept staring at Sweeney, and it wasn’t a happy stare, not by a long shot.

“C’mon, missy,” said Monahan, hauling her up to her feet. To Sweeney he added, “Well, I don’t think they would’ve buried him if he wasn’t dead,” before he stepped up on General Grant and pulled his boot back from the stirrup. He held down his hand. “C’mon, girl. We ain’t got all day.”