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

the movement, terrified she was being hurled over the cliff, but as soon as her toes touched the earth, she slugged Sweeney in the chest, nearly knocking all the air out of him.
    She wheeled toward Monahan, still seated on his horse. “And who are you?” she demanded. “His daddy? This your idea of family doin’s? Ridin’ after little girls and rapin’ ’em? What do you do? Take turns holdin’ ’em down?”
    Her words were bold, but her jaw trembled. Fear crept into her eyes.
    Monahan growled out, “I don’t molest no girl children whose name I don’t even know, missy. Or who appear to be too tender to spell it.”
    That last part got her dander up, all right, and she hollered at him, “It’s Julia. Julia Alice Cooperman. You want me to spell it out for you?”
    Behind her, Sweeney had finally caught his breath. “Where the devil’s your horse, Julie?”
    “It’s Julia,” she snapped. “And I don’t have one.”
    “How in tarnation did you get out here, then?” Monahan asked, perplexed.
    “Flyin’ carpet?” asked Sweeney snidely.
    Ignoring Sweeney, she twisted back toward Monahan. “Had one. He up and died ’bout a half mile due west of here.”
    Monahan gave a nod and a grunt. “You et lately?”
    When she didn’t answer—too proud, he guessed—he swung down off General Grant and immediately searched around in his saddlebags until his fingers found what he wanted. “You like bacon?” he asked as he pulled out the last of it—just enough for a meal.
    Julia’s stomach growled at that moment and she sheepishly nodded. “Butch, fetch us some kindlin’, would you?”
    Sweeney turned and walked back to the brush. Once the boy was out of earshot, Monahan said, “That there’s Butch Sweeney. He’s the one what saved your life.”
    The girl’s face wadded up like a dried apple. “That’s real funny. He didn’t do nothin’ for me that I couldn’t’ve done for my own self.”
    “You got water?”
    She hesitated. “’Course I do.”
    Monahan paused before he said, “Sure you do. Just like you got a fancy sit-down dinner for six in your hip pocket.” He’d lost track of the dog, but heard a soft woof coming from his left side. Quickly he added, “Sorry. Dinner for seven.”
    Miss Julia Cooperman crossed her arms firmly across her flat chest, blew out a huffing snort, then sat down directly where she stood. “I ain’t sharin’ my lunch with no dog.”
    Her statement only served to remind him that he and Sweeney ought to have something to eat, too. He turned once again toward his saddlebags and began to dig. Beside him, Blue licked his lips.
    “Just a minute, old son,” Monahan muttered, and kept on digging.
     
     
    Butch Sweeney licked his fingers. “Got any more o’ that bacon?” His begging look almost out-pitifulled that of the blue dog’s, and Monahan tossed them each a thick strip.
    The last two, as a matter of fact.
    “All the beggin’ in the whole wide world ain’t gonna do you no good now, Blue,” he said to the pleading cow dog. “Ain’t no more of it, period. You can have the last a’ the grease with a biscuit, but that’s all I got.”
    The dog leaned toward him and whimpered softly, jealously eyeing the empty pan. It glistened with melted fat.
    “All right, all right,” Monahan muttered. He gave his head a shake, then snatched the last biscuit out of its pan and broke in into chunks, which he then dropped into the bacon fat. He gave it a stir, tested it with his finger to make sure it had cooled enough for the tender mouth of a greedy dog, then shoved the pan toward Blue.
    Shaking and trembling as if he hadn’t just eaten half a pound of bacon and half a dozen biscuits already, Blue didn’t move an inch closer to the pan until Monahan said, “Okay.”
    The old man shook his head and chuckled. Butch Sweeney broke his own silence to mumble, “Whoever trained that dog sure weren’t no slacker.”
    Across the small fire, the girl—who wasn’t much