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

simple like that. And then that kid whispers it to the next kid and so on, right on down the row. By the time it’s gone through that long line, it’d end up ‘Sally caught herself a greased pig and barbecued it with Mayor Woolard’ or some such.”
    Monahan hadn’t thought about that old game in years, and danged if it didn’t make him feel kind of sentimental. He didn’t know whether he liked the feeling or not, but he put it down on the side of not, just in case.
    Sweeney said, “I reckon it’s a good thing you told me the truth of it, then. Just to clear things up.”
    “Maybe.”
    “What about Bill Hickok, then?” Sweeney asked. “Or Clooney Portnoy or Arapaho Jones or Cole Younger, or these Baylor boys that are followin’ us? What about the Kalikaks or Charlie Goodnight or Joaquin Murietta or—”
    Monahan barked out a laugh, couldn’t hold it in. “Joaquin Murietta? By gum, those boys surely did talk, didn’t they? Joaquin Murietta was beheaded in the Golden State almost twenty years ago, boy, back when California was a place where donkey-headed fools went to scratch in the dirt for gold. Well,” he added thoughtfully with a scratch of his chin, “suppose they wasn’t all donkey-headed. Some of ’em actually found somethin’.”
    “But—”
    “That’s enough,” Monahan said crisply, signaling a halt to the proceedings, and Sweeney stilled his tongue. Monahan dug a hand into his possibles bag and pulled out his own dinged tin plate and a fork, as well as Blue’s chipped bowl. “Iffen them beans ain’t ready, I’m gonna eat ’em anyway,” he muttered, scooping a soupy ladleful into the dog’s bowl to cool.
    Blue had given up tossing his rabbit skin around—which was just as well so far as Monahan could tell, for the hide had become a tattered, unrecognizable, muddy lump—and came to sit beside the fire. He eyed his bowl and hungrily licked his chops.
    Monahan shook the spoon at him. “You just hold off until I say,” he warned. “That there’s too hot for dogs. ’Sides, I’m gonna put some rabbit in it for you.” He turned toward Sweeney. “You got a plate?”
    “Guess I know where I rank around here,” Sweeney said sheepishly. With a smile, he held out his dish.

    Long after Monahan was asleep with the dog stretched out beside him and snoring softy, Sweeney stared up at the stars. Damned if it wasn’t something, his meeting up with Dooley Monahan and actually riding along with him! He was Frank James’s cousin! All right, it was a second cousin and by marriage to boot, but Sweeney didn’t much worry about the details.
    He’d tried to pump Monahan for more information about the Baylor brothers, and why they were dogging him. After all, if those mean no-accounts were on Monahan’s trail, he wanted to know the reason why. Not that he actually wanted to tangle with them, no sir. But it would be an interesting story to add to Monahan’s legend. Sweeney was all for interesting stories.
    However, every single time he broached the subject, Monahan either changed it or ignored him. It seemed the old cowboy was embarrassed by talking about the Baylors. Any man who had done the things he had done and known the people he had known ought to be more convivial. Why, he ought to be downright eager to share stories! At least, that’s the way Sweeney looked at it.
    He hoped Monahan would open up after they got to know each other a little better. Riding with a famous man who knew celebrated people—and was sort of related to at least one of them—was a long stretch from growing up an orphaned kid, kept practically a slave by fat old Fess Wattlesborg at his lonely place up in the mountains.
    Sweeney could picture the sign out front of the shack. H OOCH AND E ATS AND T RADE —W ATTLESBORG’S R OAD .
    The “road” was a narrow trail not wide enough for two horses abreast, and it was snowed in three-quarters of the year. Oh, he could just hear Wattlesborg. “Clean them stalls again,