The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1)

by Brad Dennison

  This woman, Miss Brackston, her presence seemed to be everywhere, too. The fine furniture. The little white, spider-web sort of things on the arms of the chairs – doilies, he thought they were called. A brass candelabra on the dining room table. The delicate design of the shades on the lamps. If what he had heard was correct, his father’s wife had died years earlier, and Miss Brackston was apparently the woman of the house.

  In the kitchen, Dusty found the pretty dark-haired girl he had met earlier in town. An apron was tied about her middle, and she wore a blue bandanna over her hair like a kerchief, a few loose strands of dark hair flying about. Her face was flushed from the heat of the stove. As they stepped into the kitchen, she was bending to open the oven door, a pot holder in one hand as she reached for the heated handle. She glanced over one shoulder toward the doorway, and gave a casual, “Hi, Mister Hunter.”

  Then she caught sight of Dusty and suddenly straightened, her eyes growing wide in a nervous rush of embarrassment. She reached one hand to her kerchief and found the loose hair, and sighed with resignation.

  “Bree,” Hunter said. “This is Dusty. He’s been working for me at the saloon.”

  “We met earlier at Mister Franklin’s,” she said. Then, her voice bending with a touch of hesitant shyness, “Hello again, Mister Dusty.”

  Dusty chuckled. “It’s just Dusty, Miss. Not ‘mister.’”

  Dusty found himself a little embarrassed himself, but not because he was caught with unsightly hair. This girl, apparently attracted to him, did not realize he was her brother.

  “Sabrina,” Miss Brackston said, “Get two more cups and saucers, please.”

  At Miss Brackston’s request, they retired to the parlor while Bree continued to fix the evening’s dinner. Dusty noticed Miss Brackston did not use the word supper. She seemed to be a woman of sophistication. And Dusty figured, some education.

  She took the rocker by the hearth, and suggested Dusty help himself to one of the stuffed chairs.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Hunter volunteered to stir a fire to life in the hearth.

  She said, “That would be nice, Mister Hunter. Thank you.”

  Miss Brackston was drinking tea, not coffee, and she took a sip.

  She said, “I do feel a bit embarrassed about the two of you having to come all the way out from town, but Zack felt it was necessary. I’m sure we would have been all right.”

  Dusty spoke up. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I think he’s right.”

  He told her of the campfires he had seen during the previous two nights. “This morning I rode out, found one of their campsites, and I followed their trail a few miles. They’re covering a lot of territory, but they’re riding in circles. Never roaming far from this valley, and apparently circling back to this area every evening.”

  “What might that indicate?” she asked.

  Dusty glanced to Hunter, who was on one knee in front of the fireplace, stacking some wood for burning. He gave Dusty a quick nod, and Dusty returned his gaze to Miss Brackston. “It means they’re scouting the area. They’re raiders, ma’am.”

  “Raiders? What could they possibly want? There’s no money in this valley, or in town. There’s not even a bank.”

  “I doubt they expect to find money. They’re most likely looking for horses – raiders are always looking for horses. And there’s clothing, guns, ammunition. And there’s... well..,” he did not know quite how to voice this last thought.

  “Women.” She finished it for him.

  “Yes’m.”

  She looked to Hunter. “So you abandoned your establishment in the face of a possible strike by raiders to come out here and protect us.”

  “I can always rebuild. But I agree with Dusty. They’ll want horses, more than whiskey. This is the biggest ranch within a couple days’ ride. There aren’t many horses in town, and Zack’s remuda is only about half the size of what you have here.”

  “There are women in town. That den of iniquity run by the illustrious Miss Summers might be a target."

  Dusty answered, “I don’t think that very likely. To a man on the run, a good horse, food and ammunition will be first in his thoughts. And clothing, too. It’s not like he can just walk into a store and buy a new shirt. Not when there’s a price on his head. Ammunition and clothing they can get at Franklin’s, but for horses and food, especially horses, they’ll have to hit a place like this. And any women who might already be on a place where their other needs can be met could be targets.”

  “It’s becoming apparent that you did a dangerous thing today, young man. Riding out there alone, trailing those men.”

  Hunter piped up, “You must be pretty good at it, too, because Zack never mentioned finding fresh tracks made by a single rider.”

  Dusty shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  Though, he knew that was not true at all. He had never considered himself lucky, other than that he had received good teaching along the way. He had simple ridden in the tracks of the riders he was trailing. His tracks would have appeared a little fresher than those made by the raiders, but not enough to stand out significantly.

  To Miss Brackston, he said, “I don’t know if it was all that dangerous, ma’am. I was all right. No one can find me if I don’t want to be found.”

  He had not meant that to come out as arrogantly as it sounded. He thought of adding that he was trained by the best, but that might just create questions he did not want to answer. If it became known he had been raised by Sam Patterson, the folks in and around McCabe Town would look at him as a potential outlaw, too. He seemed to be well liked by these folks, and didn’t want to lose their respect. And he found, even though he had but met Miss Brackston today, it was somehow important to him to have her respect, too.

  They ate dinner at the kitchen table. Fred paced about outside with a rifle in his arms while the others ate, then Hunter went out to relieve him.

  “Mister McCabe has a fine collection of cigars,” Miss Brackston said to Dusty, “and he enjoys one after a meal on occasion. I am sure he wouldn’t mind if I offered you one.”

  “Thank you, Miss Brackston. That would be right nice.”

  “And it’s not ‘Miss Brackston,’” she said. “The boys always call me Aunt Ginny, and I don’t see why you should be an exception.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Ginny.”

  Dusty found this cigar was one of the finest he had ever lit up, savoring the initial draught, and letting it out slowly.

  “Mister McCabe has good taste in cigars,” he said.

  On the desk were three photographs, in three matching frames. A young man, about Josh’s age, with light colored hair. Another, maybe a little younger, with darker hair. And a photograph of his sister.

  “That would be Mister McCabe’s children,” Aunt Ginny said. “Joshua, who is off at the line camp right now. And Jackson, who is away at school. And you have met Sabrina.”

  She excused herself to the kitchen to help Bree with a few things, and Dusty stood by the desk, upon which the box of cigars set, and surveyed the room. The house of his father.

  Out in the kitchen was his sister. Returning soon would be his brother. And no one at this ranch, nor in town for that matter, could possibly know Dusty to be anything but a cowhand drifting through, a cowhand who was a little too good with a gun.

  He found himself feeling suddenly uneasy, like his being here was somehow wrong, that by interacting with these people as a stranger when he was so much more was somehow violating something.

  He took another draw on the cigar and let himself pace, moving about the large, open room, noting the solidness of the floorboards underfoot, the strength of the timbers overhead. The fire Hunter had started crackled low in the hearth.

  He stopped at the rifle rack. Guns were something Dusty knew well, and it was obvious his father did, too. Something they had in common.

  Dusty wondered now, as he stood in the man’s house, if they would ever meet. Or if th
ey ever should. Maybe this would be enough, simply to see how his father lived, to learn a little about him. Maybe Dusty should simply ride out to Oregon, find Haley, and begin working toward the building of his own ranch. After all, what could he really expect from his father? Love? To be welcomed with open arms into the family? His father did not even know he existed. Regardless of blood ties, he and Dusty were strangers.

  Dusty decided to ask himself a question. What did he really want out of this? Why did he really leave Arizona, riding all the way to Nevada, and then on to Montana? To get to know his father? Or, was it more than that? Family, he thought. He wanted family. Not just Sam Patterson and a band of outlaws, or a bunkhouse full of fellow cowhands, but a real family. A place where he could belong. And now that he stood in this house, he found he wanted it more than ever.

  He suddenly became aware of a presence behind him. He glanced over one shoulder to find Aunt Ginny standing silently in the kitchen doorway, watching him.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Dusty said. “I was just looking at the guns.”

  “Yes. It’s a fine collection. He has another rifle that he carries with him. I believe he calls it a ‘Sharps,’ though I am no expert in guns.”

  “A Sharps? I’ve seen a short-barreled carbine. The Union cavalry carried them in the late war, or so I’ve heard. And there’s the longer Buffalo rifle.”

  “I wouldn’t know one from another, but I believe I’ve heard the term ‘buffalo rifle’ or ‘buffalo gun’ applied to his rifle.”

  “A Sharps can hold only one shot.” He knit his brow a little as a question formed. “I wonder why he would carry one when he has these fine Winchesters here that hold twelve shots each?”

  She was looking at him curiously. Dusty thought he saw a twinkle in her eye, almost a suppressed smile, like she knew something she was not divulging. “You tell me.”

  “Well,” he said, thinking aloud. “A Sharps is one of the best guns for accuracy and distance, and it isn’t going to jam like a repeater. And if you’re a good shot, one bullet is all you should need.”

  She gave a sort of half nod, half shrug. “It does seem I’ve heard him mention that line of thought one or twice.”

  Dusty turned to look back at the rifle rack. He didn’t really think about it at first, but an old muzzle-loading mountain rifle like a Hawken was an odd thing to have, considering repeating rifles had been in existence for almost thirty years. But he also knew the answer.

  He said, “That’s why he has that old Hawken. He used that before he had the Sharps, even though there were more modern repeating rifles available.”

  “That was the rifle he carried when I first met him, twenty years ago. Mister Johnson claims to have seen him bring down an elk at two hundred yards with that rifle.”

  Dusty’s brows rose skeptically. “That would be quite a shot.”

  “I’ve seen him do some pretty fantastic shooting.”

  “Do you think it would be all right if I looked at it? I mean, I’ve never actually seen a Hawken up close.”

  “I think it would be all right.”

  Dusty set his cigar in a small silver ash tray on a corner table, and gently lifted the muzzle-loader from the rack. The stock bore scratches, and the finish was now worn away in spots along the barrel. Dusty checked the percussion nipple quickly to make certain there was no cap in place and the gun wouldn’t fire - simple gun safety he had learned from Patterson- then he brought the rifle to his shoulder and sighted in on an imaginary target.

  Bree glanced out from the kitchen, then with alarm hurried into the dining room. “Aunt Ginny! That’s one of Pa’s favorite guns. He doesn’t let just anyone touch it.”

  Aunt Ginny shot her a glance, gaze steely and firm, leveled at her from over the rims of her spectacles. It stopped Bree as abruptly as if she had been given a command. Then, Aunt Ginny said, conversationally, “I don’t think he would mind this time.”

  Bree’s mouth had dropped open, and she stared at her aunt with bewilderment. Not just anyone was allowed to touch Pa’s guns without his say-so. Certainly not a stranger. You never know when you might have to depend on your gun to save your life, he would say. They need to be in perfect operating condition, and he felt he was the best judge of what perfect-operating-condition was when it came to a firearm. She doubted there were many who would disagree. The list of who could touch his guns was limited. Zack Johnson and her brothers were the only three she could think of at the moment. And maybe Hunter, but that was it. It was so unlike Aunt Ginny to step over boundaries.

  Bree had to admit she liked Dusty, though she hardly knew him. He was cute. She could have almost died when he stepped into the kitchen and she was such a mess! There was a smoothness to Dusty, a fluidity in his manner, an ease in the way he moved. He stepped down lightly when he walked, reminding her of a cat, and though he wore hard-soled riding boots, he made hardly a sound as he walked along the floorboards. In fact, he even reminded her of Pa a little, but his eyes were darker. There was a certain quality she couldn’t quite describe about in the look in his eyes. Sometimes tranquil, like a still pond, other times smoldering.

  But to let him touch Pa’s guns?

  She turned on her heel and returned to the kitchen, and busied herself at the dry sink, washing dishes.

  Eventually, Aunt Ginny returned to the kitchen. “I was going to see if you needed any help out here, but you seem to have things under control.”

  Bree turned to face her, suds clinging to her hands and wrists. “Aunt Ginny, you know Pa would never want a stranger touching his guns.”

  Aunt Ginny seemed to draw herself up a bit, rising to full posture, her jaw firmly set, and she leveled he Gaze at Bree. “I believe we already covered this subject.”

  This time, Bree was not going to back down. She stood her ground, he gray eyes flashing with the temper she inherited from her father. “Well, it wasn’t covered well enough. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Nothing that concerns you. Not at this moment, anyway.”

  “It seems to me anything that going on under this roof, the roof of my home, concerns me. Especially when it comes to letting a perfect stranger do something that would make Pa angry.”

  “I don’t think it would. Not in this case.”

  “Well, we’ll have to let Pa decide that, won’t we?”

  Aunt Ginny’s gaze softened a bit. “Sabrina,” she seldom called her niece Bree, “there are things afoot that I’m not quite ready to discuss yet. Do you trust me?”

  Bree nodded. When it came down to the brass tacks, Aunt Ginny, Pa, and her brothers were the four she trusted most in the world.

  “I know you’re no longer a child,” Aunt Ginny continued. “But there are things going on that I’m not quite ready to explain. I have to ask you to trust me, and to let it go for now.”

  Bree felt the anger draining away. She let out a sigh. “All right. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Aunt Ginny’s left brow rose a notch. “As do I, child.”

  Dusty stepped onto the porch, his rifle held ready in his hands.

  “Hunter?” he said into the darkness, no louder than he would have had Hunter been standing at his side. A call could carry on the night air, and he didn’t want it to carry much beyond the ranch yard.

  From off to the right of the porch, Hunter stepped from the darkness, seeming to almost materialize from nothingness. He held a Winchester, and a pistol was belted at his right hip. “All’s quiet, so far.”

  “Where do you suppose Johnson is?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Half-way between here and there, I reckon. Five miles lay between this house and his. Traveling by dark, and trying to move quietly, he’ll be riding a good part of the night. But he’ll be all right. There ain’t too many better than Zack Johnson at staying alive.”

  “Why don’t you go in and get some coffee? I’ll spell you.”

  “You talked me into it.” Hunter stepped up onto the porch.

 
“Leave the door ajar,” Dusty said. “The sound of a door shutting can carry in the darkness, and I’d rather not let anyone who might be out there get a fix on our movements. And tell Miss Brackston – Aunt Ginny,” he corrected himself, “to blow out the lamp in the front part of the house, and to let the fire burn down. Even from a distance, one of us passing by a lighted window could create what would look like a flicker in the light, and anyone watching the house would have a better idea of where we were.”

  “You sure know this business, don’t you?”

  “All too well.” Dusty hadn’t meant that to sound as cryptic as it had. “Why don’t you go in and grab that coffee?”

  Hunter laid a hand on Dusty’s shoulder and stepped into the house.

  Dusty waited, not moving from the porch, but standing motionlessly, allowing himself to blend into the darkness should anyone be watching the house. After a few moments the light from inside dimmed, as the lantern standing on the table by the gun rack was blown out. Good, Dusty thought. They were heeding his advice. Only then, with the window much darker, retaining only a faint glow from the kitchen at the back of the house, and from the fire crackling low in the hearth, did Dusty step down from the porch and into the night.

  Dusty knew if the house was indeed being watched, it was probably from a distance. A rider could sit unobserved in the trees at the edge of the meadow, where Dusty had himself watched the house but a week earlier. The moon would be up in a few hours, and once your eyes adjusted to the dim light of the night, you would probably find a remarkably good view of the house. Even though you wouldn’t be close enough to pick up the details, any motion would be quite visible.

  Dusty walked past the barn, to stand beyond the edge of the ranch yard. In the early evening darkness he couldn’t see it, but about a quarter mile dead ahead, the trail leading to McCabe Town would cross a wooden bridge that was mounted over a stream thirty feet wide, and maybe a foot or two deep. Riders would not want to chance cutting through the stream in the darkness, with slippery stones, and mud potentially deep enough for a horse’s hoof to sink into. And it was unlikely they would want to cross the bridge, which would be all too visible from the front porch once the moon rose, and the clatter of horse hooves on the wooden planks would carry in the night air.