The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1)

by Brad Dennison

  “I trust it was quite extraordinary,” Aunt Ginny said curtly. “Meanwhile, we are here on our monthly visit for supplies.”

  From her purse she produced a list, and handed it to Franklin, who quickly tied an apron about his waist and set to filling the order. Two sacks of coffee...two sacks of flour..,

  The shooting out back ceased, and Dusty stepped in. “This gun’s fine, Franklin. Shoots a little to the left, but nothing I can’t compensate for.”

  He glanced at the women. With one hand he touched the brim of his hat. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said to Aunt Ginny, then offered another “howdy” to Bree.

  “Hi,” Bree said, breaking into a smile that openly said she liked what she saw.

  But Ginny simply stared.

  “Well, Dusty,” Franklin said. “It’s good doing business with you. And that was some of the finest shooting I’ve seen since Johnny McCabe, himself. Oh, by the way, this is Miss Virginia Brackston, and Mister McCabe-himself’s daughter, Bree.”

  “Pleased to meet you both,” Dusty said, realizing the girl with the smile must have been the one he had observed riding away from the McCabe ranch house a week earlier. His sister.

  “Ladies,” Franklin said, continuing the introductions, “this is Dusty. I never did get his last name.”

  Without a response, Dusty said, “I’ll take the gun. It shoots just fine.”

  “Well, then, I guess we can call it a deal. Do you want a receipt?”

  Dusty shook his head. “A handshake’s always been good enough for me.”

  Franklin extended his hand and Dusty shook it. Franklin said, “Nice doing business with you.”

  “I’d best be goin’. Got a big day ahead of me.” He glanced to Aunt Ginny and Bree, and touched the brim of his hat again. “Nice meeting’ you ladies.”

  He crossed the floor, his gait light and easy, the rifle in one hand and the box of ammunition in the other, and he was out the door.

  “Ma’am,” Franklin said, “you got peaches on the list, but you don’t say how many cans.”

  But Ginny did not hear him, her gaze fixed on the now empty doorway. “My God.”

  “Ma’am?”

  She crossed the floor herself, to stand in the doorway as the young man called Dusty ambled down the street toward the livery stable.

  Ginny turned, her gaze fixed straight ahead, but seeing nothing.

  “Aunt Ginny?” Bree asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  “Not a ghost. Not exactly.” She returned to the counter. “Mister Franklin, tell me about that young man.”

  The question caught Franklin as odd, because it had nothing to do whatsoever with what he thought was the matter of hand, which was the number of cans of peaches Aunt Ginny wanted. But he dared not make her state her demand twice. Otherwise, she might fix him with the Gaze, which always made Franklin feel like he wanted to crawl into his shoes and hide.

  “Well, I don’t know much about him, really. He rode in a week ago, has been working at Hunter’s, doing whatever job there is to do. Even cooking. He’s good with a gun. Stopped some trouble Saturday night with a draw that was in the class of Mister McCabe himself.

  “I wasn’t there, of course,” he added quickly, “so I didn’t see it.”

  “Of course,” Aunt Ginny said.

  “He just traded-in his gun for that rifle he was shooting out back.”

  Bree said, “What is it, Aunt Ginny? Do you know him?”

  “I don’t know.” She was openly puzzled, a sight that caused Bree to raise a brow of concern. Not much ever puzzled Aunt Ginny. “I really don’t know.”

  “Why don’t we go talk to Mister Hunter about him?” Bree suggested. “Since he’s working there, it would stand to reason Mister Hunter would know more about him.”

  Aunt Ginny fixed her with the Gaze. “I can think of many places more suitable for a young lady than a saloon.”

  “He does look a little familiar, I guess,” Franklin said. “Now that you mention it. I hadn’t really noticed before.”

  Her gaze fixed on him, not sternly, but with agreement, and something that might have been wonder. “Indeed.”

  TEN

  Zack Johnson rode along a trail that cut across the valley floor, a trail that had been made over the years by riders crossing from one end of the valley to the other. The trail was nothing more than a small dirt path with grass growing on either side.

  Zack kept his horse to a shambling trot. The McCabe’s home was his destination, and he still had a couple of miles of terrain ahead of him, but he was in no hurry. He was enjoying the morning. It was still early enough so the heat of the day had not yet descended upon the land and a light northwesterly breeze stirred the grass. The sky was a deep blue – he had never seen it moreso – and an occasional heavy looking white cloud drifted low, near the horizon.

  Zack Johnson was a year younger than Johnny McCabe’s forty. He stood a little taller, with wide shoulders and well muscled arms that filled the sleeves of a faded blue shirt. His hair was walnut colored, and was covered by a gray wide-brimmed stetson. His jaw was square and clean-shaven, his upper lip covered by a mustache that was showing strands of silver.

  At his side was holstered a single Remington. Unlike Johnny, who would not even consider going to the out-house without a pair of revolvers strapped to his sides, Zack carried only one. He had a second, which he kept home, and should need arise he could go and belt it on. A Winchester was tucked into a saddle boot beneath the pommel.

  Zack was now a rancher, and before that, he had been a cowhand on the McCabe Ranch. But even before that, he had ridden with Johnny as a Texas Ranger, in the years immediately before the War Between the States, pursuing renegade Comanches, Mexican border raiders, and outlaws through the flatlands of southern Texas. They also pursued comely senoritas in the Texas border towns, drank too much whiskey and generally got into trouble.

  Despite the tranquillity of the morning, it was with the eye of a Ranger that Zack surveyed the trail ahead of him.

  Zack did not really expect to find Johnny McCabe at home. Johnny had ridden out a few weeks earlier to attend a cattle auction, and Zack knew Johnny loved to meander through the mountains, and would probably take his sweet time coming home, unless he found some choice stock. And Zack had some work waiting for him back at his own ranch, but he loved a morning ride, and this morning was simply too beautiful to pass up. Besides, he had not seen Aunt Ginny, Josh or Bree in weeks. Aunt Ginny was sort of a mother figure to him, as she was to all the cowhands who worked at the McCabe Ranch.

  Zack knew Johnny had left Josh in charge of the ranch. Zack would never admit he was riding out to check on Josh. At least, not to Josh’s face. He was just riding out to visit the family.

  As he was riding along, lost in his musing while he clung to the saddle in that natural sort of way a horseman has that gives the impression he and the horse are one, he was not even fully conscious of the scouring his trained eye was giving the trail before him and the land about him, until he caught a quick flash of light, like the sun can make reflecting against glass or metal. It came from a low ridge maybe a half mile to his right.

  It had been only for an instant, and then it was gone, like it had never been there. Had he been glancing in another direction, or simply not looking about as he rode, he would have missed it. He did nothing to alter his horse’s gait, or even turn his head in the direction of the ridge for a better view. He did nothing to create an impression he had even noticed it.

  Knowing a horse can many times sense a change in its rider’s mood, as a horse can come to know a rider much like a rider comes to know his horse, he said, “Keep it steady, boy. Everything’s all right.”

  Without turning his head, he rolled his eyes in the direction of the ridge as much as he could. It was simply a sharp grassy rise, with a few short pines decorating the summit. Too steep for even a mountain-bred horse to climb from this direction, but he knew about a mile further along, the
ridge would flatten out a bit, and was more easily accessible.

  He rode along casually. At one point, he stopped to let his gelding blow, then continued along. A mile melted away behind him as the gelding’s gait ate up the distance. Then another half mile. Ahead of him now was a flat meadow, and ahead, reduced to the size of an acorn by the distance, was the McCabe house, smoke rising from its chimney.

  As he approached, the house growing in size, he could see movement in the corral, a head bobbing as a man walked. Probably Fred. As Zack drew closer, he could see that it was indeed the McCabe wrangler.

  Zack liked Johnny McCabe’s theory of making the wrangler a choice position, rather than the usual bottom-of-the-ladder job it was on most ranches. He was doing the same with his own ranch, with a young boy with the improbable name of Ramon Cormier, whose mother was from Mexico and father was French. Ramon was about Josh’s age, and seemed to have a natural affinity with horses. Zack hoped Ramon would remain content as his wrangler, and not become lost in the romance of riding the range as a cowhand. He was paying Ramon better than any cowhand on his place, in an attempt to encourage him.

  A small river cut across the valley maybe a quarter mile from the house, and years earlier Zack and Johnny had built a wooden bridge. Zack rode over the bridge now, the iron shod hooves of his horse drumming loudly on them. Fred Mitchum, about to step into the barn, looked up at the sound and saw Zack approaching.

  “Zack!” he called out. “Nice mornin’ for a ride.”

  Zack reined up in front of him. “Fred, is Johnny back yet?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s Josh?”

  “Out ridin’ line. He won’t be back for a week. Why? Is somethin’ wrong?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” Zack swung out of the saddle. “Quick as you can, fetch me a fresh mount.”

  Fred asked no further questions. He had known Zack Johnson a long time, and Zack was perhaps Johnny’s best friend in the world. It was common knowledge Zack had free access to anything that was Johnny’s, and even though he now had his own home, this ranch would never stop being home to him. Fred grabbed a lariat he had coiled and dropped over a post in the corral fence and hurried out to the meadow behind the house, where the McCabe remuda grazed and frolicked in the morning air.

  Soon he was returning with a long-legged appaloosa. “Best runner we have, short of Rabbit. And Johnny’s horse, Thunder.”

  Zack had already stripped the saddle from his own mount, and now went to work on the appaloosa. He then leaped into the saddle. “Take care of mine, will you?”

  “Sure will. Do you need any help?”

  “No. but if I’m not back in an hour, go into town and get Hunter. Tell him to follow my trail, and to be careful.”

  And he was off, bearing west.

  Soon he was in the low hills that preceded the mountains that rimmed the valley. He found the access point to the low ridge he had observed earlier. He pulled his Winchester, and rode with it across the pommel.

  He kept the appaloosa to a walk, its hooves landing with only a muffled thud on the pine needle strewn earth, or the soft sod of the occasional open grassy expanse.

  As he neared the area from which he had seen the reflection, he dismounted, leaving the appaloosa with a rein trailing, ground-hitched they called it, and moved ahead, his rifle gripped in both hands.

  He came upon the spot where the reflection had originated. It was now deserted, but plenty of tracks covered the ground. Two men, one with boots the size of Zack’s. But a much heavier man, Zack judged by the depth of the track. The second man had a smaller foot, and narrower. Maybe the size of Josh. The ground was littered with cigarette butts, and nearby Zack found where a couple of horses had been tethered to a low hanging pine branch.

  Two men had waited here, possibly watching the trail below. Maybe with field glasses, which might explain the reflected light.

  Zack figured it had taken twenty minutes to reach the McCabe Ranch after he had seen the reflection. Fred was maybe five minutes rounding up the appaloosa for him, Zack was another few minutes saddling up, then he estimated it was forty-five minutes getting to this ridge, riding carefully and quietly. The total time, he figured, was a little shy of an hour and a half. During that time, the two riders had mounted up and were gone.

  It was probably nothing, he thought. But it just didn’t look right. He decided to go fetch the appaloosa and follow their trail a short distance, just to be certain.

  Civilization was slowly creeping its way westward, but still, in many parts of the West, these mountains included, the only law was your skill with a gun. McCabe Gap was the only settlement within a day’s ride, and there was as yet no lawman there, and any community large enough for a town marshal would give him jurisdiction extending only to the town line. In the large tracts of land between such towns, sometimes hundreds of miles, the only law might be a Territorial Marshal, but there were simply not enough of them to adequately cover all the open range.

  This was a rough land. Renegade Indians still occasionally raided, though increasingly more seldom, but they were being replaced with the even more dangerous white renegade.

  Bands of outlaws, many of them guerrilla raiders from the late War Between the States who were now carrying on their own private war, roamed the remote corners of the west. Quantrill, the Jameses, the Youngers, and the Patterson gang. And other bands not so well known. They were seldom seen this far north, but with the Territory becoming more populated, and as a result more prosperous, with mining and cattle ranching bringing in other businesses, and with the law closing in on them down in Kansas, Missouri and Texas, it seemed inevitable some might drift northward.

  Zack rode directly south, following the trail of the two riders, descending the hill and then directing his horse up slope heavily wooded with tall pines.

  He had not ridden a mile further when at the summit of this ridge, the trail made by the two riders converged with another. Large scatterings of hoofprints, too many for Zack to even venture a guess as to the number of riders. Maybe ten, maybe more. One print seemed to obliterate another.

  He dismounted, stepping down silently as he wore no spurs to jingle as he moved. Despite Zack’s Texas roots, and that spurs rang almost musically at the heels of every cowboy who grew up in Texas, Johnny McCabe had convinced him of the folly of them. You never know when you might need stealth to save your life, especially as a Texas Ranger, and the time required to unbuckle your spurs might be costly.

  And at the moment, as he followed these riders through the mountains, he was no longer a ranch owner. He was once again, at least for the moment, a Texas Ranger.

  The riders apparently milled about atop this ridge for a time. Cigarette butts littered the earth, some of them ground beneath bootheels, others had been left to smolder their way into oblivion. Then, they had ridden on, winding their way northwest, now moving in single file.

  Riding single file was an old trick used when you didn’t want anyone who might happen across your trail to be able to estimate how many of you there were. Many a Comanche raiding party had done this back in Texas in the old days, and Zack and Johnny and their band of Rangers had done the same. And there was only two reasons for a party this size not to want their number known. Either they were running from something, probably the law, or they were here to cause trouble.

  Zack noticed some of the cigarette butts were still smoldering, but some were cold. Also, there were horse droppings not even a half hour old, yet others that had been made at least a day earlier, he would guess. These riders hadn’t actually met the larger party and rode on with them. They had simply ridden along until they came to the trail made by the larger party, waited a few minutes while their horses blew, and then they continued on, probably following the larger party to an established camp.

  Zack followed the trail up the slope of a small mountain. There were pines growing a few yards apart and standing tall, and in places there were openings and large outcroppings of
rock. The trail then turned southwest as it descended the other side of the mountain. Zack’s horse was mountain bred, like Josh’s horse Rabbit, and it found its footing easily, but he could see tracks that were scuffed and kind of stretched out, indicating some of the riders were on horses that were slipping and sliding a bit.

  On a small plateau atop a ridge, Zack found a deserted camp. The blackened remains of a campfire, a handful of empty cans of beans tossed about. An empty whiskey bottle. The tracks were too confusing to decipher, as the ground was littered with too many bootprints, though Zack found where the horses had been staked out for the night and where the riders had apparently bedded down. Oddly, he found one clear bootprint that was smaller than the others, and with a sharp, narrow heel. A woman, he realized.

  From the looks of the charred chunks of firewood and the heap of more fully burned, powdered ash beneath them, they had not cared about keeping their presence a secret. From this ridge, a large enough fire would be clearly visible from town.

  Zack had seen enough. To follow further might be dangerous, as he was only one man, and would be surely outgunned. He decided to return to the McCabe Ranch. If trouble was afoot, the safety of Aunt Ginny and Bree would be in question. With Johnny not yet returned, and Josh away with the line riders, Fred was the only hand at the house. He thought he might send Fred into town to bring Hunter back, and then Zack and Hunter would hold the ranch while Fred rode out to the line camp to get Josh and the boys and tell them to high-tail it back to the house.

  Zack cut directly down the slope and emerged onto a trail that wound its way through the pine forest, the trail that led from the town, through the pass the town was named after, and into the valley. He rode through thick stands of birch and aspen. As he came out of the woods he saw, just ahead, a buckboard loaded with cargo, the seat protected from the sun by a small canopy. Two women were on the seat. One was Aunt Ginny, and the other, holding the reins, was Bree.