The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1)

by Brad Dennison

  Dusty was trying to look at the situation from the point of view of a raider. An experienced raider would scout the area from one end to the other, and would know a surprise attack from the direction of the bridge would be impossible. He would then consider working his way around to the south, and come in from behind. So, the woods behind the house were Dusty’s next destination.

  He crossed behind the stable, then turned to follow the wall along to the back door of the house. He raised a fist and gave the kitchen door three quick raps. After a moment, he heard Hunter’s voice through the door. “That you, Dusty?”

  “Yeah. Keep this door barred, and turn out the kitchen lamp.”

  Directly behind the house was a meadow in which the remuda grazed, and just beyond it was the tree line. However, the woods swung much closer to the house on the east side, coming within fifty yards. Dusty started for those woods, to learn how well he thought a group of riders might be able to maneuver through.

  Where the woods covering the ridges were pine, with little underbrush and enough room between each tree for a horse to easily pass through, Dusty found those immediately east of the house to be a tangled bramble of alder and ash, with thorn bushes that caught his clothing and slapped him in the face, or scratched the back of each hand. Underfoot were dried leaves that crunched with each step. He had gone no more than ten yards into these tangled woods when he decided that for a man to pass through here, he would need to bring a stick to knock down a path. Bringing a horse through here would be impossible, especially after dark. Dusty was even more impressed by his father’s choice of a location for his home.

  Dusty returned to the house for a quick cup of coffee, and for some last minute instructions, should shooting start, though he doubted it would tonight. The house was too strategically located for a surprise attack to be mounted easily, and the raiders hadn’t been in the area long enough for the advanced scouting that would be necessary.

  He asked what instructions McCabe usually gave for Miss Brackston and Bree should trouble like this arise.

  “There’s a root cellar under the kitchen floor,” Miss Brackston said. “With a trap door. He built the hinges on the underside, so the door wouldn’t be visible from the top side.”

  A man after my own heart, Dusty thought. “Well, at the first sound of gunfire, I want the two of you down there. Don’t come up until one of us comes to get you.”

  To Hunter and Fred, he said, “These riders will be carrying torches. It helps to scare folks, and adds to the confusion. They also need the torches to see by. Don’t let the torches shake you. They’ll also probably be firing guns as they ride, and might be screaming, something like the old rebel yell. Don’t let any of it get to you. Just stay calm, and aim just below the flare of the torches. The riders will be wide-open targets as they approach this place. You’ll both be upstairs, one of the front side, the other toward the rear. I’ll be outside. If I see them coming, I’ll fire one shot. You both get to the windows, and as soon as they’re in range, start picking them off.”

  Hunter chuckled. “You make it sound like it’ll be easy.”

  “It will be, if we keep our heads about us.”

  With his rifle cradled under one arm and a cup of coffee in his hand, Dusty returned to the front porch. In the distance, in the ridges to the south, there was now the glow of a large campfire.

  The rocking chair Aunt Ginny had used earlier on the porch was now empty, and the thought of it struck him as inviting. He had been awake since before sunrise, and he would guess it was now close to midnight, and he had many more hours to go before he could give in to sleep. But comfort can lull you, and he needed to have his senses sharp, so he remained on his feet, sipping coffee, and looking toward the orange glow on the ridge.

  The door behind him, already hanging ajar, swung open a bit more, and Aunt Ginny stepped out, her steps falling lightly on the weathered boards of the porch. She stopped at his side, looking off toward the campfire. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

  He shook his head, but realized she would not be able to see the motion in the darkness, so he added, “No, ma’am. I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.”

  He took another sip of coffee. “As long as that campfire is going, that means they’re probably up there, on the ridge. Once that campfire goes out, that’s when we’ll be in trouble.”

  THIRTEEN

  Hunter stretched on the sofa in front of the hearth, his head sinking into a pillow, and a quilt pulled to his chin. A fire in the hearth would be nice, he thought, as the night air was a bit nippy, but Dusty had insisted they keep the house dark. Despite how cold he was, he knew the boy was right.

  Hunter was too large for the sofa, his feet hanging awkwardly over one arm. He imagined Dusty would fit much more comfortably. Dusty was due to come off duty in a while. Dusty had begun the night, then Hunter spelled him, followed by Fred, and then Dusty again, each in two-hour increments. It would be Hunter’s turn again, soon.

  Damn, but it was cold. This reminded Hunter of riding herd on cold nights, or riding about with the line riders on bone chilling wintry days. Part of the reason why he now ran a saloon. Of course, while working with the line riders, you got to sleep in a line cabin with an iron stove that would keep the place comfortably warm.

  An iron stove. Aunt Ginny had one in the kitchen. He could go in there and start a small fire in the stove, and Dusty would have nothing to complain about.

  He knew he should stop thinking about lighting a fire in the stove and get to sleep. He was not a battle-hardened war veteran, but he had been in a few gun battles, enough to know you grab sleep when you can because you need your reflexes as sharp as possible. Yet, how could he sleep on this blasted sofa? With his legs elevated and his feet hanging out over the sofa arms, his toes were starting to go to sleep.

  He kicked the quilt away with frustration, and swung his feet onto the floor. He would pace about and hopefully drive some life back into his toes. Then, he would give up on the idea of getting some sleep tonight and go into the kitchen and build a fire.

  He then noticed it was no longer inky black outside with but a touch of pale moonlight, as it had been when he first lied down. It was now a deep gray, like it gets when dawn is approaching. What time was it, anyhow? And why hadn’t Dusty come and gotten him when his shift was over? Was something wrong?

  Hunter drew his revolver, checking by touch in the darkness of the room to make certain each percussion cap was in place. Then, he hurried across the floor to the door, which was still ajar.

  He stepped out. “Dusty?”

  “Riders approaching,” Dusty said. He was standing on the porch in front of the railing, gripping his rifle with his right hand by the action, his finger curled about the trigger, and the forestock held in his left hand, barrel aiming upward, ready to be snapped downward for a shot.

  Dusty didn’t turn his head to face Hunter. Hunter realized Dusty was remaining motionless, because in the dim light of predawn, detail wouldn’t be easily seen from a distance but motion might be briefly visible. Hunter remained in the doorway, following Dusty’s example.

  “They approached from across the valley,” Dusty continued. “Odd, because the angle is all wrong if they were coming from that camp off in the hills.”

  Each man standing his turn on guard duty had observed the campfire burning steadily, then only after about four in the morning had it begun to grow a bit dim, though never going completely out. On a chilly night like this, whoever was up there was feeding the fire occasionally to keep it going.

  “Your shift ended hours ago,” Hunter said. “Why didn’t you come and get me?”

  “I figured you needed the sleep.”

  “I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep at all, until I woke up and noticed how light the sky was getting.”

  “You were sure sawin’ ‘em off in there. I figured they must have heard you clear up to that camp.”

  “Very funny.”

  They heard a clat
ter of hooves on the wooden bridge. “A quarter mile away,” Hunter said. “When did you first become aware of those riders coming? How far away were they?”

  “Maybe a mile. I was staking out a perimeter, and was down near the bridge when I first became aware of something approaching. More of a feeling, than anything else. Then the crickets all stopped chirping, and then after a time, as the sky was growing lighter, I could see an occasional hint of motion out there on the valley floor. So I ran like hell back here to the porch.”

  “I’d swear, Dusty, you must be half Apache.”

  “Ute,” Dusty said, seriously.

  The riders seemed to be coming at a shambling trot, but not a gallop, as attacking raiders might. And they carried no torches. Hunter thought of going in to wake up Fred, who was upstairs in the front bedroom, when they heard Fred’s Winchester action jack open and shut from above. The window was apparently open, and Fred was awake and ready. Probably heard the riders cross the bridge.

  “Should I go get Aunt Ginny and Bree, and tell ‘em to get down in the cellar?” Hunter asked.

  “No,” Dusty said. “I don’t think these are raiders.”

  Then Dusty turned to him. “They’re riding up to the house. You stand here and face ‘em. I’ll be off to the side. If they do mean trouble, with you here, me off at their side and Fred upstairs, we’ll catch ‘em in a three-way crossfire.”

  “You’ll be wide open out there. In fact, I will be up here, too.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dusty was already vaulting over the porch railing to the ground below. “They won’t see Fred and me until it’s too late. They won’t have a chance.”

  Damn, Hunter thought. Dusty was simply too good at this, and it was making Hunter feel a little unnerved. He had met few others who were this good at improvised warfare. Johnny McCabe and Zack Johnson were two of them. Yet, like them, Dusty didn’t seem to be one who would enjoy killing.

  Hunter could see the riders now, clearly in the growing light of dawn. All but the brightest stars had now disappeared overhead. Dusty had also disappeared, somehow melting into the grayness of the early morning light.

  Four riders, Hunter could count, as they approached the front porch. They were now near enough for him to hear the drumming of their hooves on the sod.

  Once they were maybe fifty yards from the porch, Hunter roared, “Rein up where you are, and identify yourselves!”

  They reined up, and a deep voice with a sandpaper edge called back, “That you, Hunter?”

  Hunter leaped from the porch. “Hold your fire! Fred! Dusty! Hold your fire!”

  Fred had already left the upstairs window. Dusty emerged form somewhere to the side of the riders.

  Dusty said, “Do you know them?”

  The riders turned with a start – it was not until Dusty spoke that they realized there was a man off to one side.

  Hunter would know the deep, rough voice of Josh McCabe anywhere. “Yeah. It’s all right. Who’s with you, Josh?”

  Hunter was surprised to hear Zack Johnsons’s voice. “Just me. And two of the hands Josh hired to replace Reno and the boys.”

  “Zack? I thought you had gone home.”

  Dusty was now standing before the porch, and Fred was emerging from the front door. Behind him was Aunt Ginny.

  “I did. I told Ramon what the situation was. With him and the boys standing ready, I changed mounts and headed off to the line shack to get Josh.”

  Aunt Ginny stepped forward. A knitted shawl, looking gray in the early morning light, was pulled tightly about her shoulders. Spectacles were perched on her nose. “Zack, you rode all the way to the line shack after riding clear across the valley?”

  “Yes’m. Johnny would have done the same for me.”

  He was correct, she knew. She had seldom seen brothers who were as close as Johnny and Zack. It was the warfare, Johnny had said. Fighting the Comanche, and pursuing border raiders across the Rio Grande into Mexico. Being shot at together, and even having to kill together. It creates a bond stronger than any other. Except, Johnny believed, the bond of parent to child.

  “Why don’t you all come in out of the cold?” she said. “I’ll put some coffee on.”

  “What I would really like, ma’am,” Zack said, “is to grab a little sleep before I head back. I’ve been riding hard all night.”

  “Of course. The bed in the guest room is made up. You know you’re always welcome.”

  Fred took the horses to the stable to strip off the saddles and give the animals a good rub-down after the ride from the line shack. The two riders who had returned with Josh - one of whom was Long - stripped their bedrolls from their saddles and headed to the bunkhouse to stretch out.

  Josh let his gaze linger on Dusty for a moment, then pushed past him to climb the steps to the porch.

  “Who’s the gunhawk?”

  Aunt Ginny said, “Mind your manners.”

  After coffee, Hunter and the young gunhawk rode back to town. Aunt Ginny thanked them again, and told Dusty he was always welcome. Josh thought about that as he had a hot bath and pulled on some clean clothes. A white shirt and a neatly folded pair of levis taken from a dresser drawer. Dusty made him feel somehow uneasy.

  Aunt Ginny had quickly fried up some chicken and served it with mashed potatoes and some of the previous night’s biscuits. She didn’t normally serve a lunch so elaborate, but she knew Josh would be hungry from his ride in from the line camp, and she also invited Josh’s two new employees to join them. When Zack came downstairs, as the meal was commencing, she invited him to join them, too. She had been letting him sleep, figuring she would serve some left-overs to him if he slept through the meal.

  As Zack cut into a piece of chicken, he said, “Where’s Dusty?”

  Aunt Ginny replied, “He and Hunter left for town shortly after you went upstairs.”

  Josh asked, “What is it with this Dusty? Just who is he, anyway?”

  Aunt Ginny and Zack exchanged a quick glance – if Josh had blinked he would have missed it – but he did not blink and he did not miss it.

  Aunt Ginny replied, “A young man Hunter hired to help at the saloon.”

  “Since when does Hunter hire gunhawks?”

  “I wish you would not use that word. I have always loathed it.”

  “But that’s what he is, isn’t it?”

  Zack changed the subject. “So, I wonder what Johnny found at that auction?”

  “He should be home anytime,” Ginny said.

  After lunch, Fred gave Zack a fresh mount, and Zack was on his way home.

  Josh stood on the porch watching as Zack grew tiny in the distance, until he was eventually swallowed entirely in it.

  Josh always felt best when his belly was full, he was freshly bathed, and in clean clothes. Yet, he was not content. Something was gnawing away at him, and it was not that gunfighter working for Hunter.

  Bree stepped out onto the porch. Her hair was falling loosely to her shoulders, and she wore a gray vest over a white blouse, and a matching gray split skirt and black riding boots.

  Josh said, “I hope you’re not thinking of going for a ride. It wouldn’t be safe with them riders up there in the hills.”

  “Oh, I think I would be safe enough if I had my big brother with me.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Come one, Josh. Or, is your backside too sore from that long ride this morning?” she asked playfully as she stepped down from the porch.

  “I said, ‘no,’” Josh snapped, his normally rough voice growing to a full roar. He had not meant to be that abrupt. He quickly softened his voice, as softened as it could get. “It’s too dangerous to be out riding around, Bree. Even with one of us with you.”

  He was on edge, and tried to cover, but not well enough to fool her. She knew him too well. A lifetime of growing up alongside him. “All right, Josh. What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” He glanced away.

  She climbed the steps bac
k to the porch. “You’ve always been able to talk to me. Why not now?”

  He reached out to the porch railing with both hands, and leaned his weight onto it, letting one foot drift forward. His gaze was fixed on the far side of the meadow, and his shoulders were bowed as though he was carrying a heavy pack. Bree wanted to reach one hand to those shoulders in a show of concern and support, but didn’t. You did not touch Josh. He was the most closed-up person she knew. She was the only one he would confide in at all, and then only in limited doses. If you touched him, he would just close up more.

  Most of what she knew about him she had surmised from what little he had said over the years, combined with body language and a lot of reading between the lines. He carried a burden, a terrible one, of feeling inadequate compared to Pa. A man like Pa, with the legends that were growing about him, and the fact that most of the things said about him were based on truth, was mighty hard to live up to. Pa had always encouraged Josh to be his own man, and she knew Josh understood the wisdom of those words, but he was young and their father was almost a living legend, and when people looked at Josh, they saw the son of a living legend. They saw not Josh McCabe, but the son of Johnny McCabe. Can the boy shoot like his father? Can he fight like him, or ride like him? Is he the man his father is? No one had the brass to ask these questions directly to Josh, but he could see it in their eyes. He was a young man, with a young man’s pride, and such things hurt. And so, Bree cut him a lot of slack. If he was rude or impatient, or cantankerous, she let it pass. She tried to take none of it personally.

  She was about to let this pass, and was about to say, if he wanted to talk to let her know, when he drew a deep, almost shuddering breath, and said, “I’ve done a terrible thing, Bree.”

  Her brows dropped into a quick frown. But she remained silent, letting him continue at his own pace.