Monahan's Massacre Page 7

  Dooley sucked in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and tried to tell the lawman everything that had happened.

  He told about Omaha. He even mentioned the plump blonde. He said he hailed from a farm near Des Moines, Iowa, and that he was bound for the Black Hills up north in Dakota Territory. He gestured toward the Platte River, and said how he had been swept into the gang of outlaws as they fled Omaha, blocking him in, leaving him no choice but to gallop with them. He told about fording the Platte, and gave vivid descriptions of the faces of Hubert Dobbs, Frank Handley, and Doc Watson—much better likenesses, Dooley felt, than any wanted posters he had seen or any article in the Register or National Police Gazette. He related how a mean hombre, now dead, had knocked him into unconsciousness with a shotgun, now buried underneath a quarter ton of dirt in what had been a homesteader’s soddie. He went on about how he had followed the trail of the killers for days and days.

  “On foot?” The lawman had finally spoken.

  “Yes, sir,” Dooley said. “On foot.”

  He waited, but the lawman had no more questions, so Dooley went on with his story.

  About the hunger he had endured. About the quail eggs. And about seeing the smoke from the farmer’s chimney and crossing the river and finding the farmer named Ole Something-another-dorf. He said how brave and kind Ole was, and how Dooley himself now regretted ever stopping here and bringing harm to the poor man who had fled Norweigeway for a better life in the West of America.

  He explained about spending the night, and finding one of Dobbs’s and Handley’s outlaws here this very morning. He gave much detail about the fight inside, that had destroyed the farmer’s home, and the fight outside, the cowardly shooting of Ole by the man with the eye patch, and how Dooley had then killed the killer, with the final bullet carrying the beast into the well.

  “That the money?” the lawman asked when Dooley finished. The man’s eyes make a quick glance toward the saddlebags.

  “It’s in the left side,” Dooley said. “The other side has my stuff. Extra long johns, socks, those kinds of things.”

  The lawman nodded. “So that’s your take from Omaha.”

  Dooley spit. He had spent a half hour talking, and now it was getting dark, and that fool lawman had not heard anything Dooley had told him.

  “Not Omaha,” Dooley said. “Dutch Bluff. The gang robbed that bank after they robbed the one in Omaha.”

  “I’m supposed to believe that hogwash?”

  “It ain’t hogwash,” Dooley said. “It’s pure gospel.”

  “Yeah. I saw you in Omaha.”

  “You did. Then you know—”

  “I saw you riding right with those killers. I saw someone in that crowd shoot poor Milton Mitchum off the hotel roof. For all I know, that killer was you.”

  Dooley frowned. He thought. He sweated. “If you find that plump blonde who was walking on the boardwalks, she saw me. She saw me riding alone—for the Black Hills—before those bandits took off down Front Street. You just ask her.”

  “Boy,” the lawman said, “do you know how many fat blond women live in Omaha?”

  Dooley didn’t answer. He tried another tack.

  “Would I make up a story like that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You think I rode with those vermin?”

  “Yep.” This time, the man kept talking. “And you might have murdered Ole, too.”

  Frowning, Dooley shook his head furiously. “If I was a bank robber,” he said, “do you think I’d shoot a man into a well and then take time to nail a warning about the well being polluted with a corpse and also bury the farmer and even put a headstone on his grave?”

  “Maybe,” the man said. “Bounty hunters do strange things. They’re strange birds, killing men for money.”

  “I ain’t no bounty hunter,” Dooley said.

  “Tell that to the Baylor brothers,” the lawman said. “Or Doug Wheatlock, their cousin.”

  Dooley’s heart pounded against his chest. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Enough,” the lawman said.

  “I’m not a bounty hunter. Those shootings . . . they were more accident than anything else.” The man’s eyes revealed he didn’t believe anything Dooley told him. He tried something else. “If I was a bounty hunter, would I shoot an outlaw like that gent with the eye patch into a well?”

  “More accident,” the lawman said, throwing Dooley’s words back in is face, “than anything else.” He pointed the shotgun at Dooley’s midsection. He spoke what would be a regular speech for a man like him. “Here’s what’s going to happen now. Getting too late in the day to travel. You’re going to sleep in the outhouse. With that dog. If any one of you pops out—and it’ll be a full moon tonight and I don’t sleep—I’ll shoot you both dead and give that gent in the well some company. Then tomorrow morning, you’ll ride the mule, and I’ll pull the bay behind me. And we’ll take that money you stole back to Omaha.”

  “That money,” Dooley said, “is from the bank in Dutch Bluff.”

  The man gestured with the shotgun. “I can just shoot you dead now.”

  He was a thorough lawman. Before he sent Dooley and Blue into their jail for the night, he looked inside the outhouse. The tools he took out. He even dumped the nails through the hole and tossed the tin can in behind it. He left most of the newspapers and magazines, and two potatoes for Dooley’s and Blue’s supper. The rest he took with him.

  * * *

  The lawman did not make breakfast. No potatoes. Not even coffee. Dooley, once he was given permission to leave the privy with Blue, had decided that the lawman did not even eat. He wasn’t human.

  Sometime during the night, or maybe when the sky got light enough this morning, the lawman had thrown Dooley’s Navajo blanket and saddle over the mule, and had fashioned a lead rope that he secured to General Grant. He did not waste time. The shotgun’s twin barrels pointed toward Ole’s worn-out mule.

  “Get on,” the lawman said.

  Dooley obeyed.

  Not much for talking, the leathery-skinned man tossed Dooley a pair of manacles, the cuffs opened, and waited. Dooley knew what to do, and fastened one bracelet on his left wrist and the other on his right. When he had finished, he looked down at the lawman for approval. All he got was a scowl, so Dooley tightened the iron cuffs and shot the tall man a less friendly look.

  He must have put on the handcuffs to the lawman’s satisfaction, because all the tall man said was: “If that dog tries something, I’ll kill him, you, the mule, and your horse.”

  “Blue won’t try anything,” Dooley said. “He’s a good dog.”

  * * *

  When they neared the Platte River, Dooley began thinking that everything would turn out fine. The lawman hadn’t killed him, but was taking him in. People got fair trials in the West—even in Omaha. All he had to do was find that plump blonde, no matter how hard the lawman said that might prove. She’d tell the truth. So would anyone else who had seen him. He had done business in Omaha. Bank robbers didn’t spend money. They stole it.

  His stomach soured. Not everyone got a fair trial in the West. How many lynchings had he read about? How many had he seen?

  They came to the Platte, which looked wider now but even shallower, if that could be. Dooley prepared to cross, but the lawman eared back the hammers on the shotgun.

  “Upstream,” he ordered.

  Dooley looked back at the big man, but did not argue. Maybe the man knew a better crossing, though even a toddler could cross this river without drowning. Perhaps he had decided that Dooley wasn’t lying, and that he should take his prisoner and the money to the bank in Dutch Bluff. Dooley did not ask anything. He just rode.

  They rode toward a lot of green on the riverbank.

  That was one thing about the plains, about most of the West that Dooley had seen. Trees could be scarce here and there, but you usually could find them growing along creeks and rivers. The Platte was no different. Dooley had found mostly ash in this count
ry, or trees that looked like ash, but he could tell the big trees in this bunch were cottonwoods. He had always liked cottonwoods. Big, massive, sprawling, green.

  “Hold up,” the lawman said, and Dooley reined in.

  “Get down,” the lawman said, and Dooley dismounted.

  Turning around, the lawman admired the largest of the cottonwoods. “Yes,” he said, more to himself, mostly a whisper.

  Maybe, Dooley thought, he just wants some shade.

  “Yes,” the lawman repeated. “This’ll do. This’ll do just fine.”

  Keeping the shotgun in his right hand, he used his left to remove the lariat hanging underneath his saddle horn.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dooley wanted to swallow, but his mouth had turned to sand. His throat felt dry. Beads of sweat popped about his forehead like pimples, and his heart began racing. The lawman sailed one end of the lariat—the one with a loop already coiled—over the stoutest branch. The rope dangled in the wind, the noose just about the height of Dooley’s head.

  “Mister . . .” Dooley began, only to realize the lawman had not introduced himself.

  Ignoring Dooley, the man busied himself wrapping the other end of the rope around the cottonwood’s massive trunk before tying a knot and testing the rope and branch to make sure both could support weight—about one hundred and seventy pounds.

  “There.” The man grinned and wiped his hands on the legs of his pants. After picking up the shotgun he had leaned against a smaller cottonwood while he secured the lynching rope, the silent, tall man with a badge walked toward the mule and Dooley Monahan.

  “You can’t hang me,” Dooley said. “Without a trial.”

  “Trials are a waste of time.”

  “But I’m innocent.”

  Smiling, the lawman shook his head. He grabbed the bridle and pulled the mule toward the noose. Dooley hoped the mule would turn into what many mules turned into—stubborn—but this one was so placid, he eased Dooley’s head straight in front of the hangman’s noose.

  It wasn’t really a hangman’s noose, though. No coils. Just a loop through a honda. But Dooley figured it would sure enough do the job on a bona fide hangman’s knot. Maybe not break his neck outright, until Dooley did some kicking as he strangled.

  The man stopped, stepped away from the mule, and lifted the shotgun. The barrels did the talking. Dooley, fighting down the terror in his stomach, lifted his shackled hands and slipped the rope over his neck.

  Dooley glanced at Blue, who had slaked his thirst from the river while the lawman manufactured his gallows, and now rested in the shade of the cottonwood. The lawman’s eyes hardened, and he turned toward the dog, bringing the shotgun’s stock to his shoulders.

  “Don’t . . .” Dooley pleaded.

  “Sic that dog on me,” the lawman said, not taking his cold eyes off the blue-eyed dog, “and he’ll be feeding buzzards.”

  “I wasn’t going to do anything,” Dooley said. Which was the truth. If Blue started attacking that lawman—maybe even if Blue only started barking—chances seemed likely that the mule would bolt, and leave Dooley dancing about a foot off the ground, kicking until his face turned blue, his tongue purple, and his heart stopped beating.

  “Good.” The hangman tugged the rope, tightening the noose over Dooley’s throat.

  “Now . . . you got anything to say?” the lawman asked.

  “You can’t do this,” Dooley told him.

  “That all you got to say?”

  Dooley managed to summon up just enough saliva to swallow.

  “You’re a lawman,” Dooley reminded him. “You took an oath.”

  “Said I’d uphold the law. Hanging a no-good killer and robber is doing that.”

  “I told you the truth.”

  The man waited, nodded, and took a step toward the back of the mule, pushing the shotgun to his left hand, raising his right as if to whack the mule’s rump.

  Dooley decided that he had better do some more talking.

  “That money,” Dooley said. “When you turn it in to the bank in Omaha, they’ll say that it’s not theirs.” Dooley did not know how the bankers in Omaha would be able to tell that, but he figured maybe some of those notes said Bank of Dutch Bluff on it, or depositors might see some gold coins that weren’t theirs. It was just something to say, something that might give the taciturn lawman pause.

  The lawman stepped back, looked up at Dooley, and for the first time since Dooley had seen him, he did something odd.

  He smiled.

  “What money?” the lawman said. It came out as a mocking joke, a sinister sneer, and right then Dooley Monahan knew that this lawman did not give a whit about law and order or Dooley Monahan. He was going to take that money for himself and leave Dooley Monahan hanging. He knew that because the lawman, seeing what little color Dooley had left in his face drain instantly, began what appeared to be a veritable monologue.

  “I’m going to leave you here, Dooley Monahan, hanging high and dead. I’m going to pin a note on your shirt—sort of like the markers you left at that hardscrabble homestead—only instead of being a grave marker or a warning about bad water—this note will be simple. All it will say is something like, This Is What Happens to Rustlers in This Country.”

  Dooley said, “Rustlers? There ain’t no beef or horses to steal in this country. This is farmland.”

  “Whatever,” the lawman said.

  “But I tell you I’m innocent,” Dooley said again.

  “And I tell you . . . I’m rich.” He laughed. Dooley didn’t find anything funny, and he sure did not like the way the man giggled at Dooley Monahan’s expense. Again, the lawman moved toward the mule’s rump.

  “You’ll take care of my horse, won’t you?” Dooley said, resigned now to his fate.

  “Figure to sell him in Omaha.”

  “And . . .” Dooley somehow managed to swallow again. “My dog?”

  The lawman sighed. “I leave him to mourn over you.”

  “Promise?”

  “Do I look like a low-down snake who’d kill a dog with no cause?”

  Dooley tried one last plea. “But you’d hang an innocent man.”

  “Big difference,” the tall man said, “between killing a man and killing a dog.” He raised his hand to strike the mule.

  “Give me a few minutes,” Dooley said. “To make my peace with the Lord.”

  It stood to reason. A man that would not kill a dog without good reason would at least grant the last request of a man he was about to murder, to lynch, especially if that request was to pray for redemption. The lawman swore bitterly, but he raised his hand, reached for his gray hat, and he pulled it off, dropped the hat to his thigh, and even bowed his head.

  “Make it quick,” he whispered.

  Dooley prayed. Rarely had he been what you might call a regular churchgoing man, but his mother had educated him on the Bible. He had learned to read that way before the first schoolmaster set up in Des Moines, and, as a child, he had attended the gatherings at Mr. Witherspoon’s barn whenever the circuit-riding minister came to preach. Even as a drifting saddle bum, Dooley had managed to sneak out of a poker game or a smoke-filled saloon to find a tent revival now and again. He hoped that his Almighty God would remember those times a few minutes from now.

  He prayed that he would be able to see his mother and father—and those little siblings he had never gotten to know because the Lord, for his wisdom and reasoning that Dooley surely did not question, had taken them when they were but babies. He prayed that the Lord would be welcoming Ole Something-another-dorf into his Kingdom. He prayed for good weather and plenty of rains to bless the farmers in this country. He prayed for General Grant. He prayed for Blue, that he might be guided to a good family with plenty of boys and maybe even a couple of girls and a she-dog that would bring forth multitudes of baby Nebraska shepherds. He even prayed that the Lord would forgive the reticent lawman for the crimes he was about to commit.

  “Give it an amen, bus
ter,” the lawman said, his head still bowed in prayer. “It’s getting hot, and it’s a long ride to Omaha.”

  “I’m just about done,” Dooley said. He wet his lips. He glanced at the lawman, whose head was still bowed, who faced the north while Dooley Monahan looked at the dust rising on the far side of the Platte River. “Let me see,” he said, “where was I? Oh, yes.”

  He prayed that the West would be rid of men like the Baylors and Doug Wheatlock and that men and women and children and horses and dogs could live in peace. He prayed that Miss Julia Cooperman would find warmth and riches in Alaska. He prayed that the Lord would smile down on Butch Sweeney and provide him with a good horse, a good saddle, and a camp cook who was no belly-cheater. He prayed for fat beef and good water. He prayed for Fifteenth Street in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He was about to pray for Tempe, Arizona, and even San Francisco, California, when the tall lawman stepped back and slammed his hat on his head.

  “That’s amen, damn it,” the man said.

  Dooley Monahan smiled. “Amen,” he said.

  Because by that time, the riders had reached the Platte River. Nine riders splashed across the wide, shallow river, and the lawman whirled around, bringing his shotgun up, but stopping. The men had spread out, taking their time, studying the scene as they rode slowly across the river.

  “Say one word,” the lawman whispered, “and I use one round on the dog, and the other blows your head off before they gun me down.”

  Dooley couldn’t nod his agreement or understanding because the rope was too tight against his throat. He had to be patient, but this appeared to be the one chance he needed to avoid a necktie party. His only chance to live through this day.

  The riders neared the bank. That’s when Dooley frowned. He knew those men, well, at least, three of them.

  They must have seen the lawman’s badge reflecting in the sunlight, because five of them instantly filled their hands with their revolvers. The lawman must have recognized them, too, because he started to bring the shotgun up again, but a cannonade sounded from the Platte, and the taciturn lawman danced this way and that, bullets peppering his duster, sending dust flying in the air, followed by blood. The lawman, likely dead by then though still standing, squeezed both triggers and sent buckshot digging into the dirt a few feet from his boots.