Free The Trail West by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

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.

8
    “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