The Trail West Page 2

  He’d heard dogs like this called Spanish Shepherds or Australian Shepherds, or California or Arizona Shepherds, or Whatever-State-or-Territory-They-Happened-to-Be-In Shepherds. The folks calling them by any one of those names got awful touchy if somebody happened to call them by the wrong place.

  He played it safe, and stuck with calling them plain old cow dogs. Of course, the Indians didn’t call them that. They called them ghost dogs, the ones that had blue eyes, anyhow. Folks said as how Indians steered clear of those who had even one.

  It struck him that this particular dog must belong to somebody. It looked like somebody had been feeding it regular, anyhow. He should have thought of it before.

  “Where’s your people?” Monahan asked, stomping his left foot on the ground rhythmically. The feeling was starting to come back. “Ain’t you got no people?”

  The dog opened his eyes and yawned, then went back to panting softly.

  “Seems queer, you out here by your lonesome,” he muttered, and his eyes flicked once again to the trees. Nothing. He was getting as spooky as an old woman.

  Slowly, he walked through the tall, dewy, meadow grass toward a pine at the edge of the clearing, pausing to pat the neck of his hobbled bay gelding, General Grant. “Good mornin’ to you, old son,” he said softly. The horse looked up from his grazing just long enough to snort softly.

  At the pine, Monahan untied his rope from the trunk and lowered his chuck bag, which he’d stashed up the tree in case of bears. He made his way back to the fire—and the cow dog—and slowly eased himself down again in his place across from the fire.

  He added a few twigs to the embers and gave them a stir. “Ain’t heard no folks. You run off from somebody?”

  The dog sat up again and just looked at him.

  In no time, Monahan had bacon sizzling in one skillet and biscuits baking in another.

  The dog drooled steadily, watching his every move, but it didn’t offer to snatch any from the pan.

  “You got decent table manners, anyhow,” Monahan muttered, and started the coffee.

  When the biscuits were done, he broke one in two, the long way, and as the steam and that good smell rose on the cool morning air, he poked a piece of bacon inside it and made ready to pop it in his mouth.

  Softy, the dog whined.

  “Wait your turn.” Monahan inched the biscuit closer to his mouth.

  The dog’s gaze followed that biscuit like a man’s eyes, when he’s fresh off a long trail, will watch a pretty woman.

  “Oh, hell,” Monahan grumbled, and tossed the little sandwich arcing over the fire. The dog caught it in his mouth, chewed twice, then swallowed. He licked his chops and stared again at Monahan.

  “Don’t try to fool me,” Monahan said sternly. “I know how you dogs are. Even if you’d just ate a whole steer, you’d still be beggin’ for cake.”

  The dog stared at him expectantly across the fire, a string of the ever-present drool slowly dripping from one corner of its mouth.

  Monahan fixed a second biscuit, then averted his eyes and ate it himself . . . and damned if he didn’t feel guilty!

  “I just got enough for two more, dog.” He looked at its face more closely. The light had come up enough that he could see faint grizzle on the dog’s muzzle. It was old, or at least middle-aged . . . kind of like him. He figured it had to belong to somebody.

  “They’re little!” he said in his defense for wanting to eat both sandwiches when the dog lifted a paw and whined. “What do you weigh, anyhow? Can’t be more ’n fifty, sixty pound. I’m three times bigger ’n you!”

  He fixed a third biscuit with bacon and ate it, at which point the dog sat straight up on his haunches and waved his front paws in the air. Monahan heaved a sigh, fixed the last one, and tossed it to the dog, who caught it in midair.

  “Happy now?”

  Two chews and a gulp and the biscuit was gone. Its front feet on the ground again, the dog looked at him expectantly.

  “Ain’t no more.” Monahan poured himself a cup of coffee.

  The dog whined softly in anticipation and shifted its weight from one front foot to the other.

  “That’s all there is,” Monahan said more firmly.

  The dog whined again, a high-pitched sound winding down three or four octaves to a low, rumbling groan.

  Monahan shook his head. “I ain’t never heard anything so pitiful! Dang it, anyhow! If I feed you full, will you go on home and let an old man be?”

  Ever since his old yellow dog Two-Bits died, Monahan hadn’t had the urge to own another. Two-Bits had got something terrible wrong with his hindquarters. First it was just a little limping now and then, but over time the poor critter howled every time he so much as stood up or took a step.

  One morning, Two-Bits couldn’t get up at all, anymore. Monahan had to shoot him to put the poor thing out of his misery. A whole decade later, he still felt awful bad about it. He couldn’t remember what he’d been calling himself then, or what state or territory they’d been in, but he still dreamed about it sometimes. Those brown eyes had stared up at him right until the end, full of trust and terrible pain. He didn’t want to go through that again. “Will you leave?” he asked the blue dog again.

  The dog huffed quietly and waited.

  “Hell’s bells!” Monahan muttered, and dug into his grub sack for more biscuit-makings and bacon.

  After he’d fried up and fed the dog nearly a pound of bacon and a full pan of biscuits—good ones, whose dough had been rising all night beside the fire—and the dog showed no signs of decreasing hunger, Monahan finally threw up his hands. “You’re a bottomless pit, that’s what you are, dog. I believe you’d like me to fry up General Grant and serve him on cornbread! Well, I ain’t gonna waste no more vittles on you.”

  He drank his final cup of coffee and dumped the last of the pot on the fire, then walked down to the stream cutting through the center of the meadow. He rubbed the skillets clean with cold, clear water and a handful of weeds, packed up his cooking things, and moved on to General Grant, who’d been grazing quietly. In the clear light of full morning, he brushed down, then tacked up the horse, and made ready to leave.

  The dog had followed him from the ashy remains of the dead fire to the creek and back. He stood a short distance away, watching as Monahan worked.

  “You can just go on home, now,” Monahan said as he gave General Grant’s cinch strap a final tug and let down the stirrup. The dog’s rump wiggled. “This here kitchen’s closed. Me and General Grant, we got business down Phoenix way.”

  Actually, the “business” was north of Phoenix at Tom Sykes’s ranch, where he hoped to find work through the summer. Monahan had been employed for the past year up near Flagstaff at the Rocking J, but when old man Jensen had up and died, his good-for-nothing son sold off all the cattle directly after spring roundup, put the land up for sale, and headed for San Francisco right about the same time Monahan had heard about the Baylor brothers heading south.

  However, none of that was worth saying to the bobtailed, biscuit- and bacon-eating cow dog.

  “I’m askin’ you again, dog. You leavin’?”

  The dog studied him, cocking its head. Its blue eyes were more startling now that the sky was fully light.

  Monahan stepped up on General Grant. “Suit yourself, then.” He gave the horse a nudge with his knees, and General Grant moved out at a slow jog, across the meadow and into the trees.

  The dog followed.

  3

  Two hours later, Monahan was nearly out of the thinning pines when he came to an old stagecoach road.

  The dog had traveled quietly twenty to thirty yards off Monahan’s left flank, nosing at deer droppings or pausing for a moment to mark a tree. But he raised a commotion at the precise moment Monahan reined General Grant onto the rutted road and started south.

  Swiftly, Monahan reined General Grant 180 degrees, certain the Baylor boys were closing in fast, but saw exactly nothing. He checked the tree line
. Nothing but trunks. He took a deep breath and waited for his heart to settle back in his chest, then leaned the back of his wrist on the saddle horn.

  He looked down at the dog. “What? Iffen you live that a way, go on home and quit talking’ about it. Quit givin’ people apoplexies.” Then he added coaxingly, “Reckon you’ll get a second breakfast.”

  The dog ran about twenty feet to the west, then turned and faced Monahan again. He barked out several yips, sounding for all the world like questions, or maybe pleas.

  “Get goin’,” Monahan yelled. “Crazy fool of a dog, scaring me half to death like that! Go back to your folks!” He checked the road one more time, then clucked to General Grant and started south at a soft trot.

  Immediately, the dog charged to a point square in front of Monahan and stopped right in his path.

  Monahan reined General Grant to the side, and the dog moved, too. Monahan moved the horse another step to the right and the dog did the same. Every time the horse moved, the dog followed suit. Finally running out of moving room, Monahan reined General Grant to a stop, lest he run smack over the furry no-tail cur.

  “You quit that!” Monahan shouted, shaking a fist. “Consarned beast! Just ’cause I fed you some breakfast don’t give you no call to go bossin’ my General Grant around. Me, neither!”

  The dog stood still, staring at him intently.

  In frustration, Monahan reined his horse to the left with the intention of simply going around the fool critter. No sense in getting himself worked up about a dang dog, and a crazy one at that.

  General Grant had taken no more than two steps when the dog leaped to the side and faced him off again.

  Belatedly, Monahan recognized the dog’s posture—head lowered, eyes riveted to the horse, legs tensely splayed in preparation to jump in any direction at a split-second’s notice. That crazy dog was trying to work General Grant like a balky steer that wouldn’t go through the chute!

  General Grant stopped on his own quickly and flung his head in the air with a dull clank of bit against teeth. Monahan had to grab for the saddle horn as the horse’s head nearly smacked him in the face.

  Whether it made any sense to get worked up over the situation or not, Monahan reckoned he was. His jaw set, he reined General Grant over to the right, sternly pointing his finger at the dog. “You stay there, gol-dang it!” he shouted. “I’ve had about enough o’ your foolishness. You just stay right the hell over there!”

  Again, the dog moved to block his path, and General Grant came to another sudden halt. Monahan sat there and steamed for a minute, then scratched the back of his neck. Angrily, he said, “What am I gonna have to do, dog? Shoot you?”

  The dog just stood there, head low, his tongue lolling, his eyes intent.

  Staring at the cur, it dawned on Monahan that the dog hadn’t nipped at General Grant as if it were pushing livestock. It was sure as shooting pushing him, but it hadn’t so much as growled or lifted a lip. It wanted to go west and take him along with it—dead set on it, as a matter of fact—and was trying to convince him as friendly as it knew how. But west wasn’t where Monahan was going.

  In a calmer but still firm voice, he said, “Listen here, blue dog. You’re gonna make me late for my business appointment.” There didn’t seem to be any sin in making it sound fancier than it was. After all, only the dog and the horse were there to hear him. “You just go on back to your folks and leave me and General Grant alone. Be a good ol’ blue dog. Go on home, now.” Monahan swung his arm toward the west. “Git!”

  At last the dog moved grudgingly to the side and out of his path.

  With some degree of self-satisfaction, Monahan said, “There. That’s a good fella. That’s the idea, boy. Your people are probably missin’ you somethin’ fierce by now.” He gave General Grant a nudge, and before they had taken three steps down the road, the dog all of a sudden jumped at the horse and snagged Monahan’s right rein in his teeth, ripping it right out of his hand!

  Monahan was so shocked he couldn’t think of a dad-blasted thing to yell—nothing that was evil enough—until the dog had backed nearly ten feet toward the west, leading the confused General Grant off the road by a taut rein.

  “Hold up, you bilious bag o’ bones ’n’ fangs!” Monahan shouted at last, leaping down from the saddle like he had a bawling calf on the end of his rope. It was still pretty fast, despite his years.

  “Of all the sneakin’, scrofulous, mule-headed tricks!” he ranted as he marched out in front of General Grant. He snatched his rein back from the dog, shouting, “Leave go!”

  If he’d been thinking, he would have been ready for a fight, but the dog didn’t offer one. It released the rein, turned, and ran about twenty feet to the west before stopping and barking twice. Trotting back, the dog came right up to Monahan—who hadn’t so much as offered to pet it during their acquaintance, let alone get within arms’ reach—and snagged his pants leg, tugging for all it was worth.

  “Hey!” Monahan shouted, hopping on one leg and leaning backward. “Stop that!”

  But the dog kept on yanking, and nearly pulled Monahan’s leg right out from under him before Monahan threw his hands into the air and cried, “All right, for cripe’s sake! I ain’t gonna shoot you, and you won’t give me no peace till I go with you, so I’m goin’! You hear me? I said I’m goin’, so let go!”

  The dog let go with no warning, which caused Monahan to sit down hard and fast. He watched as it trotted off about ten feet, then paused and looked over its shoulder, waiting.

  “It just better not be far, that’s all I gotta say,” Monahan muttered as he fingered his trouser knee. “I’m gonna dun your folks for a new pair of britches, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  The dog had bitten right through the cloth, leaving four small puncture marks. Monahan poked his pinkie finger through one and out another. “Dang it, anyhow! These is practically new! I only had ’em a year, you no-account excuse for a hound.”

  The dog barked at him again.

  “All right, all right, don’t get yourself in a tizzy!” Monahan climbed creakily to his feet, which was easier said than done. Any more, his knees felt like they were filled up with gravel.

  He brushed himself off, gave his sitting place a hard rub, and stepped back up on General Grant. The moment he started the horse moving off the road and toward the west, the dog took off at a dead run. It stopped about fifty yards out and turned, staring back through the sparse trees to make certain Monahan was following, then turned and ran again.

  “I ain’t never seen a hound so gol-danged single-minded, General,” Monahan muttered, and pushed the gelding into an easy lope. “Ain’t seen many people that mule-headed, ’less it’s them Baylor brothers. ’Course, I ain’t exactly seen ’em yet, either.”

  As he left the trees behind and headed out through the low scrub, he kept thinking he was going to ask—demand—those folks for new britches money, and then he was going to have them tether that dad-blamed, wild-colored, blue-eyed dog to a tree until he was in the next county.

  But he also thought something must be awful wrong, somewhere, for the dog to act the way he was acting.

  And that surely did nag at Monahan.

  By the time he had covered six or eight miles and the dog showed no signs of stopping, Monahan had invented all sorts of dire reasons for the dog’s behavior. Some miner owned the dog, he reasoned, and was trapped in a cave-in. Or somebody was in a gully with his leg broke. Mayhap it was some rancher’s wife, stuck in a creek tryin’ to save a spring calf from drowning!

  Dogs could be awful loyal. He’d heard of heroic dogs pulling children from rushing flood waters, heard stories of dogs saving folks from house fires and such. Of course, old Two-Bits had been with him the spring he broke his leg for the second time, and he’d tried and tried to send that dog back to the ranch to get somebody. But the old fool wouldn’t leave him, and finally they’d just huddled together for warmth till another hand came looking for them.

&nbs
p; It seemed like the old cow dog was more the go-for-help type, although why the dog had settled on Monahan as its provider was a mystery.

  “You’da thought he’d find somebody younger,” Monahan muttered. “I can still pull a calf out of an arroyo. Might take me longer than some, but I can still do it. But I sure ain’t up to diggin’ some feller out of a mine all by my lonesome.”

  Although the dog had slowed its pace somewhat, going quickly from a dead run to an extended trot eating up the ground like nobody’s business, it just kept on steadily heading someplace specific. It was single-minded, he’d give it that. Keeping General Grant to a moderate trot about twenty or thirty feet back, Monahan shouted, “This had best be important, you mangy old blue dog! I ain’t got no time for sightseein’! I’m a busy man, and I ain’t gettin’ no younger!”

  The blue dog twisted an ear back toward him, so Monahan knew it had heard. But it didn’t seem impressed by a man’s pressing appointments, and it didn’t slow down.

  Another two miles or so sped by under paw and hoof and Monahan thought he’d best bring General Grant down to a walk for a while, then break out the water. It wasn’t all that hot, yet. It was too early in the season for the man-cooking heat that came to the flats around late May and stayed till September. Monahan, however, was of the opinion it was best for man and beast alike to drink before they felt the thirst come over them.

  He’d give that dog a drink, too, if he could only get it to stop for a minute. The blasted thing must have legs made out of cast iron was all he could figure.

  They’d traveled over gently rolling hills all morning, going slowly but steadily down in altitude, and had come into a hilly landscape devoid of trees, but thick with spring-green grasses and the occasional thicket of plump prickly pear. He was just about to rein in the General for a well-deserved break when the dog barked excitedly, picked up speed again, and disappeared over the crest of a hill.