One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2)

by Brad Dennison

  “Nina,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk. I was at Mister McCabe’s fire, talking to him.”

  Jack said, coming up behind her, “It may not be safe to wander around out here alone. Not if those riders are out there.”

  Mrs. Harding said to Nina, “Get in the tent before your father wakes up and finds out you were out here.”

  “Yes’m.” Nina started for the tent but threw a glance over her shoulder at Jack. “Good night, Jack.”

  Jack tipped his hat to her. “Good night.”

  The Harding woman looked at Jack, a moment, then turned and followed her daughter into the tent.

  Jack decided it might be best for him to finish his coffee and then take another wander out into the night and see if that campfire was still burning off in the distance.

  As he grabbed his coffee from where he had set it down in the grass beside the upended bucket Nina had been sitting on, he found his gaze drifting back in the direction of the Harding tent. And it was not the campfire off in the distance that he was thinking about.

  12

  Brewster took the final guard, and as the eastern sky was beginning to lighten with pre-dawn, he woke Jack up and handed him back his pistol.

  Jack climbed out of his bedroll and reached for his boots. He then pulled the trigger of his pistol and eased the hammer back a bit so he could freely spin the cylinder, and gave the loads a quick check. Force of habit. Then he returned the gun to his holster.

  Jack’s face was scruffy as he hadn’t shaved since the day before they left Cheyenne. He had slept in his clothes every night since they had been on the trail. Not much of a chance for a bath out here.

  He joined the Brewsters at their cook fire for a plate of hot cakes and a cup of coffee. Every so often, trying to be as casual as he could, he would steal a glance toward the Harding camp. He would see Nina milling about, helping her mother prepare their breakfast. A couple of times she glanced toward Jack and gave him a little smile.

  One time Jack stood, plate in hand, and looked about like he was surveying the situation. Like a good scout should. But he let his gaze linger on the Harding camp for a few moments.

  Jessica was sitting on a small wooden stool, her plate in her lap. She rolled her eyes at Jack and shook her head. She said, “Could you be more obvious?”

  He looked at her, trying to muster up the most questioning look he could find. As if to say, but whatever do you mean?

  She said, “We all know you were out here talking to Nina for all hours of the night.”

  Mildred Brewster said, “Jessica. A lady does not pry into the affairs of others.”

  “Mother,” she rolled her eyes again, as only a teen-aged girl can. “Everyone knows they were out here. Everyone except old man Harding himself.”

  Mildred said, “Mister Harding to you.”

  She got up to go join her husband. He was at the oxen, getting ready to hitch them up. Their son was with him. Jack thought Brewster did well for a man with one hand, but sometimes you just needed a second hand to hitch up a team.

  Jessica was still on the stool, finishing her last hot cake. Jack was really coming to dislike Jessica, and saw an opportunity to get in a dig at her. He said, “Besides, whoever said you were a lady?”

  She shot him a wicked grin. “Touché, cowboy.”

  The wagons were in motion at sunrise. Brewster’s son was leading the team. He stood almost to Jack’s shoulder, and wore a white shirt and dark pants and suspenders over his shoulders. He wore a floppy felt hat. They all called him A.J., which Jack figured probably was short for Abel Junior. They often called him Age, a sort of abbreviated version of A.J.

  At Jack’s suggestion, the women walked. It would give the oxen a little less weight to pull. Brewster was leading one of the teams, and his wife was walking alongside him. Jessica and Nina were off a couple hundred yards, strolling through hip-high grass. Occasionally they would come across a patch of wild flowers, and at one point Nina picked a tall pinkish flower and was holding it in one hand as she walked. Jack was not one to know the names of flowers. Aunt Ginny knew chrysanthemums and peonies from jonquils. All Jack knew was the flower Nina had picked was pink.

  He decided as scout he should check on everyone, so he rode out to the girls.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he said.

  Jessica rolled her eyes at him again. “Good morning, cowboy.”

  Nina gave him a shy smile. “Hello.”

  “I just thought I’d check on you both. As the scout, I also have to recommend that you don’t wander too far from the wagons.”

  Jessica said, “I’m sure if you thought we were in trouble, you’d come rescue us, whether we wanted to be rescued or not.”

  Jack decided the best course of action would be to ignore her.

  Nina said, looking at Jack playfully, “Could there be wild Indians out here?”

  He raised his brows and shook his head. “You never know. Or big scary grizzly bears.”

  Jessica said, “How much more of this do I have to listen to?”

  “I’d best be going,” Jack said. “I’m thinking of scouting the back trail a little.”

  “Be careful,” Nina said.

  “Always. You know, tonight, I’ll be out by the fire a while, after everyone’s asleep. Standing guard. You know, hypothetically speaking, if a girl, say, was having trouble sleeping and wanted to come out by the fire, I would sure appreciate the company. Hypothetically.”

  Nina gave him a sly smile. “Well, if this hypothetical girl has trouble sleeping, maybe she’ll wander out your way.”

  Jack tipped his hat to them both. “Ladies.”

  He turned his horse and started away toward their back trail.

  He heard Jessica saying, “Why don’t you just jump on him and kiss him tonight? I know that’s what you want to do.”

  Nina said, “Jessica. You are shameless.”

  “You can bet your life on that.”

  And then he was out of earshot, but he smiled as he rode along.

  Jack rode over to the Brewsters. Their wagons were first in line this morning. They usually were.

  “I’m thinking of riding back and scouting the back trail again for a bit.”

  Mildred Brewster said, “What are you looking for back there?”

  “Any sign of movement. This land is so dry, a group of riders moving along will stir up a small dust cloud that can be visible from a distance. Even in the grass. Not much of a dust cloud, but enough that you can notice it if you’re looking carefully.”

  The Harding wagon was number three in line. Carter Harding was moving the oxen along. He glanced at Jack for a moment, but then turned his eyes to the wagon ahead of him, and the trail beyond.

  “How’s the axle holding up?” Jack said.

  “Fair enough.”

  Jack knew Harding must have seen him talking to the girls, which might account for a little extra coarse attitude from him.

  Jack said, “I cautioned the girls about not wandering too far from the wagons.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be all right.”

  There was a lot Jack wanted to say. He didn’t take to being treated rudely. He had his father’s temper, just like his brother Josh did. You shove any one of them, and they’ll shove back twice as hard. But Jack also knew something of diplomacy, and decided this was the better option for the moment. And the diplomatic thing to do at the moment was simply to remain silent.

  Jack turned his horse away.

  Behind the Harding wagon were the Fords. Mister Ford was moving the oxen along, and his wife was sitting in the wagon seat with their young child.

  Ford looked up at him. “How are things?”

  Jack nodded. “Fine. No sign of trouble at all. I’m going to go scout the back trail a bit, though. Just to be sure.”

  Ford smiled. “You happen to see another elk, it would be mighty welcome at dinner.”

  Jack returned th
e smile. “If I see one, you’ll get first choice of the cut.”

  Jack’s glance drifted to the wagon seat, and Ford’s young wife. Jack had suggested that everyone walk, but the Fords were apparently not following his advice. He wanted to ask why, but again thought of diplomacy. Ford might not take kindly to being instructed by a man young enough to be his son.

  What Jack said was, “Is Missus Ford okay?”

  “Oh, she’s fine. Just a little tired this morning.”

  Jack nodded. “I’ll see you all in a few hours.”

  The country was still wide-open, as it had been outside of Cheyenne. Grass in all directions, and not a tree in sight. But the hills seemed to rise a little more sharply now. They weren’t quite so long and stretched out. In the far distance, off to the left of the trail, was a long, low ridge that looked to be rocky and arid.

  Jack turned his horse away from the trail and climbed one of the low hills. At the top, he stepped out of the saddle so he wouldn’t be as visible from a distance. Again, Pa’s teaching. Don’t skyline yourself.

  Jack loosened the cinch so the horse could breathe a little more comfortably, and while the horse grazed he stood with the wind in his face, rattling the brim of his sombrero, and he searched the horizon with his eyes.

  Pa had said in desert country, riders will kick up such a dust cloud you could see it for miles. You could even guess the number of riders by the size of the cloud. But here where there was grass, any dust kicked up by riders would be minimal. Riders keeping to the trail where the grass was worn down, like with the stage yesterday, would create a dust cloud. But if they were going overland, staying away from the trails and not riding too hard, there would be very little dust.

  Jack thought he saw a sort of smudge near the horizon. Maybe four or five miles off. Might be dust, he thought. Hard to tell.

  He realized he was getting hungry. Maybe he would ride about and see if he could find another elk. Ford’s idea had been a good one. Now that elk had been mentioned, he found himself hankering for another taste of it.

  He tightened the cinch and swung into the saddle, and turned his horse north and east. He would cut a wide circle around the wagons, seeing what he could scare up for game as he went. But all the time, he kept an eye on their back trail.

  13

  That night, they camped by a small creek. The grass was worn away in places where wild animals had come to graze, and in a few places sections of bedrock were exposed. Some alders grew and provided dead branches. The men attacked a deadfall with saws, and there was firewood for the night.

  Jack returned with a white-tailed buck draped across the back of his saddle, and the mood at the camp became festive. Even Harding cracked a smile and shared in a laugh with Ford and Brewster. Jack found a piece of bedrock rose high enough to make a convenient stool, and sat with a plate of venison and enjoyed the lighter mood around camp.

  When the meal was done and the fires burning low, and everyone turned in for the night, Jack gave his pistol to Brewster again and again volunteered for the first watch.

  Jack had dropped in another piece of alder into the Brewster’s fire, and then poured himself a cup of coffee. He fetched some water from the creek and started a second pot of coffee boiling. His saddle and bedroll were in the grass, a few yards from the fire. His horse grazed contentedly off at the edge of the firelight.

  After a time, Nina emerged from the tent. She was stepping lightly, and cast a glance over her shoulder toward her family’s tent as she made her way over to the Brewsters’ fire.

  “So,” she said with a smile. “This hypothetical girl had a little trouble sleeping and thought she’d take a walk.”

  “I put a pot of coffee on,” he said. “I made it the civilized way.”

  She raised her brows. “Oh? I didn’t realize you knew how to make civilized coffee.”

  He smiled. “I learned from my Aunt Ginny. I even cracked an egg into it. Just in anticipation of a hypothetical girl who couldn’t sleep.”

  She brought her arms about her as a chill struck her. “It’s so much colder out here at night than I would have thought. In Vermont, we were further north than we are now, but it’s almost summer. Back home, it would be quite warm in the evening this time of year.”

  Jack went to his bedroll and pulled out a jacket. It was a waist-length and made of deerskin, sewn together with strips of rawhide.

  “My father made this for me a couple years ago,” he said. “It’s not lined, but it’s surprisingly warm.”

  He draped it about her shoulders. She gave him the kind of smile a girl gives a man she likes when he does something like that.

  “I don’t want you cold,” she said.

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  She said, “I think we made really good time with the wagons, today.”

  He nodded. “I think we should be at the way station by early tomorrow afternoon.”

  He knelt to stir the fire a little. “I hope being out here doesn’t cause problems with your father.”

  “Mother knows I’m here. She was awake when I left the tent. She whispered to me not to be long.”

  “Will your father be angry if he finds out?”

  “He’ll put on a show of anger, yes. But deep down, I think he knows how I feel about you. Father’s a complicated man, and you have to know how to play your cards around him. He’s deep feeling and cares greatly for his family, but it’s all buried beneath this exterior of gruffness.”

  “Why is he like that?”

  She shrugged. “Mother always deflects the question, but I’ve heard things over the years. His father was rough on him. Used a belt on him more than once.”

  “There are those who believe the only way to raise a boy is with a firm hand. I never remember Pa striking Josh or me, though. Our respect for him is so great a simple firm word was all it took. And Aunt Ginny..,” he shook his head with a smile, “she can glare at you in a way that can almost cut you in half. I’ve seen many a man a lot tougher than I am shake in his boots when she did that to him.”

  She gave a little laugh. “I would like to meet your family some day.”

  “Well, we’ll be in the area. Brewster’s talking about settling in the Montana foothills. There’s no better farming land than right there outside the town of McCabe Gap.”

  “McCabe Gap? Is it named after your family?”

  He nodded. “It’s not really a town, though. It’s just a few buildings gathered together in a pass that leads into the little valley we call home. It’s very sparsely populated, but what the place has to offer is land. Thousands and thousands of acres. The center of the valley is mostly unsettled, and there’s enough water there to make farming very possible.”

  “And what about you? Have you ever thought about farming?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Oh no, ma’am. No self-respecting cowboy would ever be caught working afoot.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  He said, “That’s cattleman humor. You’ll see when you get there.”

  The coffee was ready, so he poured her a cup. A wooden chair Jessica had used during dinner was still out, so he held it for Nina as she gently lowered herself into it. He then handed her the cup.

  Aunt Ginny had said once you can tell a lot about a person by the way they sit. If they just plop down in a chair, or if they lower themselves gracefully. Nina had done the second. She was classy, but not like it was an affectation, but something natural. Like it was just part of who she was.

  He poured himself a cup. This stuff was much too thin for his liking, but this pot of coffee wasn’t about taste. It was about who he was sharing it with.

  She said, “My father is a little like you, in a way. According to Mother, he never wanted to be a farmer.”

  “What did he want to do?”

  “She said he has the soul of a poet.”

  That got a look of surprise from Jack. If he had just taken a mouthful of coffee, he was sure it would have sprayed e
verywhere. How could a man as ornery as Carter Harding have the soul of a poet?

  Nina continued, “No, really. He can be quite gentle, sometimes. But he was taught by his father that such things are a sign of weakness. And publishing poetry is a thing for the wealthy. Father was the son of a farmer and they couldn’t afford the schooling needed. Father has a natural gift with working with the land, coaxing it to grow things. He has a natural gift with live-stock, too.”

  Jack nodded. He could see where she was going with this. “I suppose I do know a thing or two about being shackled by your own gift. With me, the gift pertains to things academic.”

  “You’re highly intelligent.”

  He shook his head with a smile. “No. That’s what everyone thinks, but it’s just an illusion. The gift is that I can remember almost everything I read. Excelling at school is easy for me because I don’t have to study. I just have to read something once and I can test on it. I graduated high school at the head of my class, and I did so without even really trying. Not that I mean to boast, because I surely don’t. It’s just this confounded memory of mine. I can read a page out of a book, and then even months later, quote it almost verbatim.

  “For instance..,” he searched his memory for a moment. “’And the Lord said unto Gideon, The people that are with thee are too many for me to give the Midianites into their hands, lest Israel vaunt themselves against me, saying, Mine own hand hath saved me.’

  “Old Testament. Judges, chapter seven. Verse two, or three. I forget which. I read that passage once, for a course I took in Biblical literature, my freshman year in college. It was all about how the Bible as literature affected the literature of western Europe and this country. And even the politics, and to a large extent, the European and American mindset.”

  “Did you get an A in the course?”

  He nodded. “I just fed the teacher back the stuff he was feeding us, as though I agreed with it, and got an A.”

  “You disagreed with him?”

  “It’s not so much that I disagreed with him, it’s that I don’t really care. I don’t have any interest in debating that sort of thing. I want to ride the mountains. Raise cattle.”