The Trail West by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone Read Free Book Online Page A

catching it over and over. “Reckon we’d best find that dog somethin’ to herd. Trampin’ the trail all day, and he’s still got enough energy for twins.”
    Sweeney wasn’t easily dissuaded. “They said as how you knew the James boys. That true, Monahan? They said as how you rode with Jesse.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “They said you rode with Quantrill.”
    Monahan snorted. “Hog squirt.” He poured himself a cup of coffee.
    “Which?” Sweeney insisted. “That you rode with Quantrill or that you rode with Jesse?”
    “You just don’t give up, do you, son?”
    Sweeney smiled. “No sir, I don’t.”
    Behind him, the dog threw the rabbit pelt high in the air with a snap of his neck, then leaped up to catch it in midair. He gave it a good shaking, and then another toss.
    Sweeney didn’t see any of it, but Monahan did, and it put him in a pretty fair mood to see the critter finally enjoying itself. After a moment, he said, “I’m from the great state of Iowa, boy, and I fought for the Union . . . I think.” He took a sip of his coffee. “If I’da ever run into Quantrill, I wouldn’ta stopped to say howdy, that’s for dang sure. I probably woulda put a lead ball between the crazy man’s eyes. And I wouldn’t know Jesse Woodson James if he was to walk in here and ask for a plate of rabbit and beans.”
    A puzzled look crossed Sweeney’s face, and Monahan added cryptically, “Now, his brother Frank? That’s another matter.”
    Sweeney leaned forward, his face eager as a pup’s. “How’d you come to know him then, if you fought for the North? Did you ride together? I mean, after the war?”
    “Nope.” Monahan took another sip of coffee. “The backstabbin’, bank-robbin’, rebel coward married up with my second cousin.”
    That seemed to stun Sweeney into silence, and Monahan took advantage of the lull to give the beans a stir and add four pinches of salt and three of pepper. He couldn’t stand flat beans. While he was at it, he adjusted the rabbit’s spit, giving it a half turn. It was starting to get a little too done on one side to suit him.
    Monahan gave the beans another stir and said, “It was a long time back. Reckon I’ve got over the worst of the mad.”
    “F-Frank James is your second cousin?” Sweeney finally stuttered.
    Monahan shook the bean spoon at him, and a couple of beans hissed when they hit the fire. “Only by marriage. Don’t you get to blamin’ that pestilential James clan on me!”
    “Well, did you go to the wedding?”
    Monahan snorted. He had gotten over the worst of his mad at Frank James, all right. That was, he was past the point of uprooting trees over it. But he was still plenty doggone ticked.
    “I should say I didn’t! I was up to Minnesota when my old neighbor wrote me about it, and I was so disgusted I up and burned that letter right then and there. And I’m through talking about that rebel trash, iffen you don’t mind. And even if you do.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Sweeney. “Sorry.”
    “Well.” Monahan supposed he’d snapped at the boy. Young Sweeney couldn’t help it if a bunch of bored bunkhouse cowhands had talked his ear off. “Just don’t believe everything you hear.”
    “No sir, I won’t.”
    “And quit that ‘sir’ business.”
    “Yes sir. I mean, okay.”
    Monahan tried to mash a bean against the side of the pot, but it was still a little stony. He topped off his coffee and leaned back against his saddle. “When you was a kid, did you ever play a game called Town Gossip?”
    Sweeney shook his head.
    “Well, Missus Frye—she was the parson’s wife, up at our church back home—had us play it when we was kids, to teach us against the sin of repeatin’ tales. It was a right good lesson, and I ain’t never forgot it. She’d start out with a long line of young’uns, and the first one gets somethin’ whispered in his ear. Say, for instance, ‘Sally went to town and bought a green dress.’ Somethin’