The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1)

by Brad Dennison

  What he needed was a job. From what he had seen since he had ridden into this area two days earlier, the only work available would be with horses and cattle, both of which he was quite experienced with. Of course, there was another line of work he knew much about, one Sam Patterson was very good at, but Dusty refused to even consider that.

  Three years earlier, Patterson had said to him, “It’s time for you to make a decision, Dusty. You’re old enough now that if you’re going to stay with us, you need to start pulling your own weight. I don’t mean to sound harsh, boy, but some of the men have always objected to me keeping you with us, and now that you’re practically full-grown, I can’t have you stay with us any longer unless you start riding with us on jobs.”

  “What if I decide against it?” Dusty had asked.

  “Then, you ride away. Free and clear. You’ll be on your own, but keep in mind all I’ve taught you about survival. About people. And what I taught you about how to use those Remingtons in your belt, and you’ll be all right.”

  Dusty did not have to wait to give his answer. He had already put much thought into this. “I can’t be apart of stealing, Sam. I don’t mean to sound like I’m judging you, because I surely wouldn’t do that. You raised me and I’ll always be beholdin’ to you. But even though it might sound strange to anyone who doesn’t know you, if I joined you and the boys, I’d be going against all you taught me.”

  “I was hoping that’d be your answer.” Sam extended his hand and Dusty shook it. “You ride, boy. Roll up your bedroll, saddle your horse and ride. And don’t look back. I love you like my own son, and I’ll miss you. But it’s the best thing for you.”

  And now, three years later, without a cent to his name and no food in his saddle bags, he still refused to take anything that did not belong to him, or which he had not earned.

  The grassy floor of the valley stretched before him, and he allowed his horse an easy shambling trot, and eventually they climbed into a forest of hardwoods, aspen and birch mostly, as they neared the pass.

  The afternoon sun was beginning to ride a little low in the sky, and his stomach was rumbling. A squirrel had made for a skimpy breakfast, and that had been many hours earlier. He thought he might ride into the small town and see if he could possibly find some work to do in exchange for a meal, and then possibly bed down in the livery. His blankets unrolled on a layer of straw would not be quite the bed he wanted, but at least he would be under a roof. Even though it was June and could be quite warm by day, the nights at this altitude still tended to be a little chilly.

  Dusty wanted to lay low, to remain inconspicuous until he decided what approach, if any, he was going to take with his father. Maybe spending a few days in this town, working for his meals and sleeping at the livery, would be ideal. He had noticed a saloon earlier, and thought he might try it first. Chop some wood, maybe, or sweep a floor. Hell, maybe even serve beer. He had gained some experience with that in Nevada.

  He followed the small pass between two wooded ridges, and fell into the shadows of early twilight. Beyond the pass, he came to a softly rounded grassy rise, and he guided his horse up into it, which brought him back into sunshine. Down below, not two hundred yards away, a grizzly lumbered along.

  The bear was keeping a roughly parallel course. Dusty’s horse had not yet seen the animal, and as the wind was wrong, had not caught the bear’s scent.

  “Keep right on a-goin’, big feller,” Dusty said toward the bear, but loosened his pistol in his holster just to make himself feel a little more safe.

  Of course, a pistol was not the ideal weapon to bring down a grizzly with. Sure, if the bear was close enough, and you were a hell of a shot, you could place your bullet correctly in a vital place like an eye socket and kill the bear. But to have enough nerve to hold your pistol steady for a shot as a grizzly charged down on you would be quite a feat. You would not think because of a grizzly’s tired, sloppy way of moving, with its head bobbing about as though the animal were simple-minded, that it could run quickly enough to be a threat to anyone. But a grizzly could be deceptively fast. If a grizzly was within pistol range and running toward you at full speed, you would have time to miss only once.

  Dusty decided to add a rifle to his list of wants, to be filled once he found work. A Winchester, maybe. He intended not to begin the long ride to Oregon without one. As a cowpuncher, he did not really need one, and it might prove cumbersome, but for long distance riding, he decided a pistol simply did not provide enough fire power.

  The bear lumbered on, going about its business. Dusty continued on his way toward the little town.

  The late afternoon breeze was turning crisp and clear. Mountain air. Prior to this, he had spent little time in the mountains. For a time, the Patterson gang made a hide-out in a cabin on a ridge in Colorado, and once a posse had chased them clear to what was then the southwestern end of Montana Territory, which was now starting to be called Idaho. And the Cantrell Ranch stood before a backdrop of mountains; at times the mountain air would drift down - cool, crisp and clean. He could understand why his father would want to bring his children here.

  Dusty descended onto a long grassy plain, and at its center was the small cluster of buildings that made up the town. At the last cattle camp, which had been a week ago, one of the cowpokes had said the name of this little place was McCabe Town.

  This time, Dusty did not cut a wide circle. He rode onto the town’s only street, his horse’s head hanging with fatigue. The animal had been living on mountain grass, which can be rich in what a horse needs to maintain strength and stamina, but Dusty had been covering a lot of miles each day, and the animal was simply worn out. It needed a long rest in the town’s livery stable.

  However, before either he or his horse were to be granted rest, he needed to find work. The first order of business. Dusty reined up in front of a structure made of wooden planks, with a sign over the front door reading HUNTER’S SALOON. This was the place to start. Dusty swung out of the saddle, gave the rein a couple of turns about the hitching rail, then stepped up and onto the boardwalk, and through swinging batwing doors.

  Hunter was idly pushing a broom, sweeping gravel and dust into a little pile at the center of the room, when he heard the doors swing inward and the scuff of bootsoles. He glanced up at the young man in the doorway, and the first thing he noticed was the way the boy wore his pistol. Like it was a part of him.

  Then he noticed there was something oddly familiar about him. About the set of his shoulders. About the strong, almost square jaw. And the look in his eyes.

  “Howdy,” Hunter said. “You’re the first customer of the day, which I guess ain’t too surprising, for a Monday.”

  The boy nodded.

  Hunter shifted the broom to his left hand and stepped toward the boy, extending his right. “My name’s Hunter.”

  “Most folks just call me Dusty.”

  Hunter’s huge paw wrapped around Dusty’s.

  “You look like you been in the saddle a while,” Hunter said. “Can I get you something to wash away the trail dust?”

  “Actually, I smell coffee in here, and it sure smells good. I haven’t had me a cup of coffee in a week.”

  “Well, the coffee does smell about ready.” A kettle of coffee boiled away on a stove at the center of the room. Hunter leaned the broom against a table, and poured Dusty a steaming cup.

  “I got me a small problem,” Dusty said. “I don’t have any money. What I’m looking for is a job.”

  “A job, eh?” Hunter was not hiring. Though he was turning a profit, he was doing so barely. He would like to have had some hired help to relieve him of the long days he had to put in, but he simply could not afford it. This was cattle country, and ranchers and their hired hands usually lived on credit between drives to market. During the long stretches between cattle drives, Hunter rarely saw cash.

  Yet, there was something about this boy he could not place – something oddly familiar about him.

 
“Tell you what,” Hunter said. “First cup’s free. Grab a chair, and I’ll be right back.”

  “I don’t want charity.”

  “Ain’t charity. It’s called hospitality. I’ll never deny a man a cup of coffee or a drink of water. Grab yourself a chair, and one for me, too. I’ll be right back.”

  Hunter stepped into the back room, and a few minutes later emerged with two tin cups. He filled them with hot, black coffee and handed one to Dusty.

  “I’m much obliged,” Dusty said.

  “Think nothin’ of it.” Hunter dropped into a chair. “You been through here before?”

  Dusty shook his head. “Never in my life. Not until today. Been sleeping on the trail. I happened onto this town, and I thought I might try to find some work.”

  Hunter took a sip of coffee. Thick, strong. Trail coffee. He had developed a taste for it during his years of working for the McCabes.

  “So,” he said. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “Cowpunchin’, mostly. And I’ve done some mustangin’. Worked a trail drive once, for the Cantrell spread down in Arizona. Rode shotgun for a freight outfit for a few weeks, before that.”

  “Arizona, huh? That’s a long haul from there to here.”

  Dusty nodded. “Did it all on horseback.”

  Hunter’s brows went up.

  Dusty nodded. “Every mile of it. First to Nevada, then from there to here.”

  “You don’t hear about that sort of thing anymore, but in the old days, long hauls like that were done more often. My daddy, he was a fur trapper back in the thirties, before he took up with a girl who was going west with her family, and settled in Oregon. He and those like him used to travel hundreds of miles at a time on horseback, with only their bedroll, a knife, and a good rifle.”

  Dusty nodded. “Got to get me a rifle.”

  “Today, it’s all stagecoach, and soon there’ll be a railroad spur swinging our way. About the only other man I hear about nowadays to travel overland is Johnny McCabe.”

  Hunter saw a slight reaction to the name. A brief, barely noticeable flicker in his eyes. Dusty had tied not to show it, but it had been there.

  “You know the McCabes?” Hunter asked.

  Dusty shook his head. A little too quickly, Hunter thought.

  “No,” Dusty said.

  Hunter decided to let it pass, and continued. “I was a cowpuncher, myself. I rode for the McCabes for a lot of years, before I built this place. I don’t know if Johnny McCabe ever even set foot on a stagecoach or a train. Everywhere he always went, it was by horseback. Even now, he’s off to a cattle auction, and he went by horseback.”

  Hunter took a sip of coffee, his eyes on Dusty, trying to figure him. Dusty’s eyes did not have the look of a man on the run, that sort of edginess known to the breed. He was calm, his brown eyes reminding Hunter of a still pond. Yet, what could bring a man all the way from Arizona? Especially by a round-about route that took him to Nevada? He must have logged a thousand miles. That’s a lot of distance, especially with your backside in a saddle.

  It was not the way of those who lived in the west to pry, so Hunter decided not to voice his questions. He would instead direct his attention to the Colt riding at Dusty’s right side.

  “I’ll say one thing for you, Dusty. You carry that gun like you know how to use it. More than you’d expect from the average cowhand.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been trained by the best. But I ain’t no outlaw. I’ve got no price on my head. And I don’t go around looking’ for trouble.”

  “Didn’t say you was, son.”

  “I’m just looking for work. If you ain’t hiring, then I’m hoping you could direct me to someone who might be.”

  “You tried the McCabe place? There are about five ranches all within a day’s ride of here, but the McCabe spread is the closest.”

  “Nope. I ain’t looking for a cowpuncher job. Nothing that permanent. Just an odd job or two for a few days. Maybe a week or two, at best.”

  “Then what? Moving’ on?”

  Dusty shrugged. “Next stop is Oregon.”

  Hunter chuckled. “Oregon?”

  Dusty nodded, a little sheepishly. “There’s a girl there, and..,” he let it trail off.

  Hunter nodded with a smile. “Many a man has done worse than riding a thousand miles on horseback for a girl.”

  Hunter took another sip of coffee. “Well, Dusty, I sure could use the help, but I can’t afford it. Business is good, but it ain’t been that good, yet.”

  “I ain’t askin’ for money. Just meals, and maybe a dry roof over my head for a few days.”

  Hunter gave him a long look. This was the slow time of the week. Monday afternoon. Just two evenings earlier, the barroom had been filled with cowpunchers, pouring down beer and whiskey, and playing cards. A couple of fights had broken out, resulting in overturned tables, and Hunter had to knock some heads together. And there had been the fight between Josh and Reno, one of the finest examples of fisticuffs Hunter had seen in a while. Josh was sure a chip off the old block.

  Hunter could have used the help Saturday night, but at the moment, as far as odd jobs went, there was simply nothing that needed doing that Hunter could not do himself.

  Yet, there was something he could not quite place about this boy, and he did not want him to leave until he figured it out.

  “Tell you what,” Hunter found himself saying. “Can you push a broom?”

  “Yeah. Done it before.”

  “When your coffee’s done, finish the floor. Then, there’s some wood out back that could use splitting. I’m not much of a cook, but you’re welcome to stay and have supper here.”

  “I’m beholding to you.”

  It was as Hunter watched Dusty push the broom, a swamper who wore his gun like a gunfighter, that it came to Hunter who this boy reminded him of. The way the boy walked, the set of his shoulders, and the way his gun seemed to be almost a part of him.

  Now ain’t that damned peculiar, he mused.

  EIGHT

  Dusty slept in the livery stable, his blankets unrolled on a layer of hay. He had made an arrangement with the man who operated the stable – he would be on hand at midday to act as hostler when the stage arrives, help change teams, and he could have a free place to sleep. Breakfasts were provided by Hunter, usually fried eggs and steak.

  Hunter would often become distracted while the steaks were frying, and they would be sooty and flattened by the time they were served. Since Dusty had something of a knack for cooking, he volunteered to handle the breakfast duties one morning. First he tenderized the beef, hammering at it with the butt of an unloaded pistol, then he fried it, flipping it over regularly, which Hunter tended to forget to do. Dusty added salt occasionally. He served steaks that were juicy, excessively tasty, and not laborious to chew.

  “You got a new job, Dusty,” Hunter said. “You’re the new breakfast cook.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be the new supper cook, too.”

  Hunter winced. “My cooking’s that bad?”

  Dusty raised his brows and gave a quick nod.

  Charlie Franklin, who owned the general store, was sitting at a table sipping coffee. Hunter did not officially open his saloon in the morning, but some of the locals liked to come in and drink some coffee and chat, so Hunter charged a penny a cup. Sometimes a newspaper that arrived on the stage the day before would be handed about.

  “Hey, Hunter,” Franklin said. “The way those steaks smell, you ought to consider opening for breakfast.”

  Franklin had a rounded stomach and thin, graying hair. Not the strong look of most of Hunter’s customers, but unlike the others, he had not spent most of life punching cows. But he was ambitious. Not only did he operate the general store, but he sold guns also, and dabbled in some gunsmithing.

  “That’s a fine looking pistol, Dusty. Could I see it?”

  Dusty drew the gun and handed it to him. Franklin held it out a couple feet before his eyes, s
quinting as he examined the piece. “Ah, yes. Fine looking. Forty-five?”

  “Forty-four-forty,” Dusty said.

  “You don’t say. The Colt Peacemaker. The gun of the future. Walnut grip. Nice balance. In ten years, this will be about the only gun you’ll ever see anyone carrying.”

  “It’s a good gun,” Dusty said, as Franklin handed it back to him. “But I’m looking at a long ride overland, on horseback. All the way to Oregon. What I really need is a rifle.”

  “Oregon? Your travels take you far, then.”

  Dusty nodded. “They sure do.”

  “Well, I have a fine selection of rifles.”

  “Nothin’ I could afford, most likely. I don’t have any money, and I don’t plan on staying long enough to work and save any up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you’ll be leaving. The way you cook, it’d be a shame to lose you.” He looked at Hunter. “Take my advice seriously. A good breakfast in the morning is worth paying for. And those guests down at the hotel, they have cash, a valuable commodity in this town between cattle drives.”

  Franklin also had a tub in the back room of his store, and sold a bath for a dime, and laundered clothes for fifty cents. Dusty had no money, but Hunter said for Franklin to add it to the saloon’s tab. Dusty allowed himself to enjoy the luxury of hot water and soap, on the agreement that he work it off at the saloon. The mountain water he had washed in while on the trail was rich in minerals and got you tolerable clean, but there was nothing like steaming water and lathery soap.

  While he was bathing, Franklin washed Dusty’s clothes, and hung them on a line out back to dry.