The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1)

by Brad Dennison

  He touched his heels to the appaloosa’s ribs, and the animal broke into a quick-stepping trot and caught up with the wagon.

  “Ah, Zack,” Ginny said. “It’s good to see you on this fine, summer day.”

  He touched the brim of his hat. “Ladies. I was just heading back to your house.”

  “Now, that’s odd. You came up behind us, but we didn’t see you in town.”

  Leave it to Aunt Ginny to never miss a thing. Zack had often though she would be hell on wheels at a poker table. “Well, ma’am, there could be trouble afoot.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Zack told her about the tracks he had seen, and the camp he had found. “Have you seen any strangers around? Like, in town, maybe?”

  “No,” Ginny said.

  Bree piped up. “Just the one, at Franklin’s store. Looked like he could handle a gun. Mighty pleasing on the eyes, too.”

  Ginny cast Bree a sidelong glance. “Concentrate on your driving.”

  Bree returned her gaze to the trail ahead. “Yes’m.”

  “What stranger?” Zack asked.

  “Oh, he has no connection with the riders you trailed,” Ginny said. “Of that, I’m sure.”

  “How? Did you talk to him? Who is he?”

  Without responding to his question, or maybe responding in a way he couldn’t figure, she said, “I would be pleased if you could join us for lunch this afternoon.”

  Aunt Ginny served a lunch of fried chicken, potato salad and rolls. She also served a glass of white wine. Chablis, she called it. Whatever that was. Zack did not know wines. A cold beer at Hunter’s, or a glass of whiskey or even maybe a brandy, was more his speed. Aunt Ginny came from money, down in San Francisco. Her father, grandfather to Johnny’s late wife, had done well as a merchant seaman, at one time owning a small fleet of ships. Aunt Ginny had brought some reminders of her wealthy lifestyle in ‘Frisco with her, including a collection of fine wines.

  After lunch, Zack accepted a glass of brandy and one of Johnny’s cigars, and he drifted over to the gun rack while Aunt Ginny and Bree cleared the table. A couple Winchesters were present, and an older Henry that was the predecessor of the modern Winchester. Also, there stood a muzzle-loading Hawken mountain rifle, which Johnny had carried with him as a young man. It was an old weapon, its bore now eaten by corrosive black powder to the point it was no longer safe to fire, and Johnny had long since started using a Sharps buffalo rifle in its place. He kept the old gun for sentimental reasons. He said it was a connection to his younger days.

  Zack had been present when Johnny won the old Hawken in a poker game down in Texas, years before Josh, Jack and Bree were even a twinkle in his eye. That rifle had ridden in his saddle boot back in ‘66, the year he and Zack had first found this valley. That winter, Johnny brought down an elk at one hundred-fifty yards with that gun, and kept them and a small band of Shoshones they were living with from starving.

  Zack was standing in front of the rifle rack, the smoldering cigar in one hand and the brandy snifter in the other, as Aunt Ginny drifted from the kitchen.

  “Would you take a walk with me?” she asked.

  He followed Aunt Ginny out the front door. Bree had complained about being left to wash the dishes alone, but Aunt Ginny told her chores build character.

  They strolled casually, commenting on the fine summer day and the refreshing north-westerly breeze that was keeping the flies away. Zack talked about his new home, and plans he might have for expanding the house should he ever find the right woman to take as his wife – he was older than most men when they start a family, but he did want children.

  “Have you heard from Jack lately?” he took a sip of brandy.

  “Yes. We received a letter three weeks ago. He’s in his final year of college, two full years ahead of the others his age.”

  “I know he makes Johnny proud. But all his children do.”

  “Indeed. As they should. They come from fine stock, on both sides.”

  “They surely do.” He took a sip of brandy. He knew Aunt Ginny had asked him to join her for a reason. She never did anything unless there was a reason. But he also knew he would have to wait for her to get to the point on her town time.

  Their stroll brought them beyond the corral. They stood watching the horses of the McCabe remuda grazing in the meadow behind the house. One horse, a brown gelding, galloped about, feeling frisky at the touch of the northwesterly.

  “Zack,” Ginny said. “You’ve known Johnny longer than anyone. Longer than even I have.”

  He nodded. “I suppose I have. Rode with him with the Rangers, when we were Josh’s age. What seems like a lifetime ago.”

  “And you do know that he considers you his best friend.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  He nodded again. “I would have to say he is definitely the closest friend I’ve ever had, too. Sometimes more like brothers than friends.”

  “I think it might be safe to say that you know more about him than anyone else.”

  “I suppose so.” He raised his brandy for another sip.

  “Then you could tell me – is it possible that he might have another child, a son, about Josh’s age? Or maybe a little older?”

  Zack choked on the brandy, a small spray escaping him and barely missing her. “No, ma’am. No chance of that at all. Excuse me for spittin’, but you kind of caught me by surprise.”

  “Don’t answer so quickly, Zack. Think about it. Any women, other than Lura?”

  “Never. He would never have cheated on Lura.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt. But perhaps, before her?”

  “Well, there was..,” he did not know quite how to say this. These were times when bawdy or even suggestive language was never spoken by a man while in the presence of a woman. “I mean..,”

  “Say it, Zack. I’m not one of these prissy ladies who is going to pretend she has never heard a goddam or a shit or a son-of-a-bitch, or that she has no clue where babies come from.”

  “Yes’m.” He glanced toward his boots. He was not accustomed to hearing such words from a woman’s mouth. But then, he should learn to let nothing about Aunt Ginny surprise him. “Well, ma’am, I mean, there were times when we were with the Rangers...well, we were just kids, really. And there were saloons there, and women who worked the saloons..,”

  “Whores, I believe they are called.”

  “Yes’m. Them kind of women. Well, there were times that...well, we were young and foolish. And drunk. Especially Johnny, sometimes. Drunk, that is.”

  He stopped, as though he had said something he should not have.

  Ginny drew an impatient breath. “It’s all right, Zack. I am well aware of his past battles with whiskey. Could any of those, shall we say, to ease your discomfort, encounters, have produced a child?”

  He shook his head quickly. “No, ma’am. Of that I’m sure.”

  “How sure?”

  “Very sure. We followed up with them ladies to make certain nothing came of it at all.”

  Then, his gaze suddenly darted off to a point somewhere ahead, but he was not seeing the horses or the trees beyond. He was seeing something in his memory. “Wait a minute. Maybe..,”

  Ginny was silent, letting him piece together the events time had dimmed in his mind.

  He said, “It was a long time ago..,”

  “How long?”

  “Well, I would guess about twenty years.”

  “Twenty years. Are you saying that he did cheat on Lura?”

  His gaze shot to her. “No, ma’am. He would never have cheated on her. But well, it’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “Try me. I have all afternoon.”

  Zack had not thought about this in years, but he told her about the events as best he could remember. “He had been working as a ramrod for a spread in California. That was when he met Lura. He was in love with her like with none other. Then, after he had spent a month with the line riders one time, when he went to see
her, she was gone. Her parents told him she didn’t want to see him again, and said she had told them not to tell him where she had gone.”

  Ginny nodded. “I remember that time well. She was four months pregnant with Joshua. Her parents had sent her away, and away was my house, in San Francisco. She was but my niece, but in many ways was more of a daughter to me than she ever was to my sister.”

  “Well, he went on a drunken spree like only he could do, and this was a bad one. It was almost like the spree was in equal proportion to his love for her, and the hurt he was feeling because he thought she had left him without even a good-bye.”

  Ginny nodded. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive my sister for that.”

  “He quit his job and just headed east, over the mountains into what they called Utah Territory in them days, drinking himself stupid in every saloon along the way. His brother Josiah and me, we rode along to keep him out of trouble as best we could.”

  Zack explained Johnny had gone into one town alone, claiming he needed some time to himself, simply to think. “He had promised he wouldn’t get himself drunk. But when Josiah and I woke up the following morning and he wasn’t in camp, we went into town looking for him. Found him in the bed of a saloon woman, so drunk he could scarcely even see. She was a dark-haired woman, with dark eyes. Had some Indian in her, I thought.

  “Back at camp, we filled him with coffee, and once he was ready, we rode on. All he could remember was he had gone into town and started pouring down whiskey. He remembered nothing after that.”

  “And this woman, she was never...followed up on, as you put it?”

  “No, ma’am. We were young, and maybe a little stupid.”

  “Maybe is the operative word, there.”

  “Well, we rode north. It was how we found this valley, actually. Wintered here with a band of Shoshones. There was a girl, the daughter of one of the warriors, but as far as I know, a romance never really developed between them.

  “He spent the winter mostly sobering up, and getting his head clear. He finally decided to find Lura and hear it from her directly that she didn’t want to see him anymore. The letter didn’t tell him where she had gone, but the first place he thought of was San Francisco. I guess she had told him about you.”

  Ginny said, “And when he arrived, he found Lura and their infant son. And they married.”

  “Yep. That’s about the size of it, I guess.”

  “I’ll never forget how he looked that day, standing on my doorstep. He’s changed a bit, his face is a bit lined now, and he moves a bit more deliberately, as the impulsiveness of youth has finally fled him.”

  “Why do you ask all of this?”

  “Because I’ve seen him again. Or, at least, the spitting image of him, as he looked when he first landed on my doorstep. And I think it’s simply too much of a coincidence. Zack, I think the son of that dark-eyed saloon woman might be here, looking for his father.”

  ELEVEN

  When Dusk was starting to touch the land and Zack felt it was becoming apparent Johnny McCabe wouldn’t be returning this day, he asked Fred to ride into town and fetch Hunter.

  “I hope Johnny’s all right,” Zack said, standing on the porch and gazing off toward the darkening valley.

  Aunt Ginny was in a rocker, a cup of tea in her hand. “I have told that man, time and again, that one day he will ride off and simply not come back. He will get himself killed, riding off alone like that. What does he think stagecoaches are for? And he seldom rides by the trails, but rather straight through the mountains.”

  Zack took a sip of the trail coffee he held in one hand. He said nothing. He knew when silence was the wiser choice.

  She said, “Zack, if you would like to be on your way, I’m sure Sabrina and I will be fine until Fred returns with Hunter. You have a long ride ahead of you, and it’s getting dark. And if those riders are indeed scouting possible targets to strike, if they are indeed outlaws at all, you might want to be home with your men, should they strike there.”

  “My ramrod is there, and a couple of the hands, and Ramon. And the tracks seemed to indicate the riders might be focusing on this side of the valley. They likely already scouted my place, and realized this is the bigger of the two ranches.”

  They were silent a moment. Then he said, “I still find it a little hard to believe that young gunhawk working for Hunter could be Johnny’s son from that saloon woman, all those years ago.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Yeah, but is it really all that likely?”

  “Do you think I might be jumping to conclusions?”

  “Well, no disrespect intended, ma’am, but I do think it might be just a little bit of a stretch.”

  “Intellectually, yes. So do I. Possible, but not very probable. Yet, I’ve learned that the intellect can seldom be relied upon. It’s the heart one must use, Zack. It is only with the heart that one can truly see. It is the feelings, more than the thoughts, that must be relied upon. Oh, we must all employ judgment, but when we are confused, we need look no further than our own heart for the answers. And we will often find that we already knew the answer.”

  Zack shook his head, and took another sip of coffee. “Wise words, I guess. I don’t know if I understand all of it, but wise words.”

  Ginny smiled. “I don’t think anyone can truly understands how things really work. At least, not in this lifetime.”

  “Even so, this boy, he might look a little like Johnny, but – “

  She cut him off. “Not a little, Zack. And it’s not just the way he looks. It’s the way he moves. It’s the look in his eye. But you will see for yourself.”

  His gaze had returned to the valley floor, but now he glanced back at her, his brows dropping with curiosity. “When?”

  “In a short while. He’ll be riding out with Fred and Hunter.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “I don’t believe a young man would remain idly in town when his family might be in danger.”

  Zack took a couple more sips of coffee, and drew in a deep lungfull of early evening air. He and Aunt Ginny remained in silence, watching the shadows of twilight creep across the flat, grassy meadow that stretched into the distance.

  Shortly, three riders appeared, emerging from the woods at the western edge of the valley. They had been on the horse trail Josh used a few days earlier, and the riders from the ranch often took when going to town. It was a full mile shorter than the trail that crossed the wooden bridge, but was far too rough for a wagon.

  Zack watched as they approached in the dimming light. Zack couldn’t see their faces, but he could easily recognize Fred by the relaxed set of his shoulders and the easy way he had with a horse. The other, larger and more heavily built, would be Hunter. The third Zack would recognize anywhere, in any light. The width of the shoulders, the narrowness of the hips. The way he moved with the horse as though he and the horse were one, as though he had been born on the back of a horse. His left hand gently grasped the reins, his right gripped a rifle he held across the pommel. Zack had logged more miles alongside this rider than any other.

  “Aunt Ginny, look. It’s Johnny. He must have met them on the trail.”

  “Is it Johnny? Look more closely.”

  As they drew nearer, the realization that this was not Johnny McCabe struck him.

  The riders reined up before the porch, and swung from the saddle.

  “Howdy,” Hunter said.

  Ginny was on her feet now, standing beside Zack, teacup resting steadily in a saucer held in one hand.

  “Good evening, Mister Hunter,” she said, though her eyes were on Zack, obviously enjoying Zack’s reaction.

  Zack could see the young man clearly now at this short distance. The edges of his chin, the contours of his cheekbones. The resemblance was startling.

  Hunter introduced them to Dusty.

  “Yes,” Ginny said. “We met earlier, in town.”

  “Pleased to make you
r acquaintance again, ma’am.”

  “Coffee is on, in the kitchen. Strong and foul, just the way you men like it. I’m sure you’re no exception, young man. Zack and I will be right in.”

  Dusty followed Fred and Hunter through the door. Only once the door was closed did Zack look at Aunt Ginny.

  He said, “I...I don’t know what to say. It’s like looking into the past.”

  “Isn’t it, though? Of course, you’ll find his eyes are darker. Like his mother’s.”

  TWELVE

  Dusty had not actually decided whether to let the McCabe family know who he really was, or simply light out to Oregon and leave well enough alone. And yet, here he was, standing on the front porch of the McCabe house, drinking coffee and enjoying the night air with Hunter, Miss Brackston, and the man introduced as Zack Johnson. Fred had taken the horses to the stable for tending.

  Zack drained his cup and said, “I’m going to be hitting the road, now. Thanks for the coffee, Aunt Ginny, and the lunch.”

  “Take care,” she said. “Have a safe ride home.”

  Zack cast one more glance at Dusty, then stepped down from the porch and headed for the stable.

  Dusty had glanced about the house quickly while following Hunter and Fred to the kitchen immediately after arriving, taking in all he could of the home built by the man who was his father. He liked what he saw. The openness of the design, the stone hearth, the exposed timbers overhead. The first floor was entirely open, like some Spanish haciendas he had seen, yet the overall structure was more like that of a cape. The house had a sense of strength about it. If you could truly tell much about a man by the work he does, and the character of what he builds, and Dusty believed you could, then he was indirectly getting his first real glimpse of his father beyond the legends.

  When Dusty and Hunter had finished their coffee on the porch, Miss Brackston invited them in for a refill. As Dusty followed her through the great open room to the kitchen beyond, his eye caught the rifle rack. Winchesters. And an old Hawken. You can also tell much about a man by the way he fights, and the tools he chooses for such a thing. Dusty again found himself pleased by what he saw.