The Trail West Read Free Page B

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