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

past twelve—asked, “Where are you fellers headed, anyhow?”
    “South,” said Sweeney at the same time Monahan said, “West.”
    The girl’s face twisted up before she said, “Which is it?”
    They spoke again and the answers were the same. Monahan turned toward Sweeney and repeated himself more firmly. “West. Why the hell would we go any other way? She comes from the west and she belongs there. You said so yourself, didn’t you?”
    Suddenly, the girl shot to her feet. “I thought you looked familiar! You been workin’ in the store. For Mr. Nils Gunderson. You busted up the saloon and been workin’ it off in trade.” Her tone was accusatory, but at the same time, a little admiration seeped through.
    “Yeah, that’s me.” Sweeney looked at Monahan and explained. “The whole town’s in an’ outta there. Can’t expect me to remember everybody. And what you mean, I told you where she was from? I never said no such thing!”
    Monahan nodded. “Never said you did. Only asked if you did or didn’t.”
    Unexpectedly, Sweeney laughed. “Well, damn. You did, didn’t you?”
    But the girl didn’t. Little Miss Julia gave her head a haughty shake and said, “If you think I’m goin’ back there, you’re sore mistook. I never want to see that lousy excuse for a town again so long as I live. Been a lot done to me, and I done bad back when I had me a chance, but now I want a whole new life. Want it where nobody knows me, where I can start fresh without my uncle’s reputation colorin’ the way folks act an’ what they say. Wanna go somewhere fresh that’s just startin’ out so’s I can start out with it.”
    Monahan folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against a rock. “And how you plan to earn your way whilst you’re doin’ all this startin’ over?”
    “Anything I can,” she said right out. “Keep books or wait on ladies in a store. Work slingin’ hash or mixin’ drinks. I ain’t even opposed to . . . you know, makin’ my livin’ on my back if I gotta.”
    The offer was made more boldly than Monahan believed she intended it, but he simply nodded his head. “Attitude like that’s gonna draw the fellers in like bees to honey.”
    “Oh, shut your pie hole, old-timer.”
    He took momentary umbrage to the word old-timer until it dawned on him that she was right. He let it pass.
    Sweeney, on the other hand, wasn’t so forgiving. “Who you callin’ names, you baby she-cat?”
    Just like that, she pounced on him, letting loose with a barrage of unaimed and unanswered blows and kicks. As she pounded, she shouted, “Don’t you go callin’ me names!”
    Despite his occasional shocked look when she contrived to land a blow that actually hurt him, Sweeney managed a big grin and taunted, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty . . .”
    “You peckerwood idiot!” she screamed, hitting and kicking as hard and wild as she could—which was growing pretty danged wild and hard.
    More in order to save the young cowboy some face than anything else, Monahan climbed to his feet and stood over the girl. “That’ll be about enough, Miss Julia.” Grabbing the back of her shirt and the waistband of her skirts, he lifted her straight off Sweeney, still kicking like an airborne bronc and trying to punch the living daylights out of him. She landed a good, sound slap to his cheek, then spat in his face.
    Monahan had turned around and was setting the girl on the ground, feet first, when the air behind him moved with a little localized whoosh. He planted a hand on Julia’s shoulder and held her away at arm’s length, then twisted his head toward Sweeney. He was on his feet and looked very angry. Maybe not angry enough to kill her, but Monahan wasn’t taking any chances. He stretched out his other arm and planted it in the center of Sweeney’s chest, stopping him as he stepped forward.
    “Let me have at her,” Sweeney muttered, never taking his eyes off the girl’s. “Just lemme at her for five lousy