One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2)

by Brad Dennison

  Brewster said, “I’ll admit, after our first meeting, I had changed my mind about wanting to hire you. But you’ve convinced me you’re a good man. I like the way you think. I’d like to meet your father. A school can give you education, but it’s often your parents who teach you how to think.”

  Jack had the fleeting thought that his life would be a whole lot easier if this man was Nina’s father. He said, “I’m sure my Pa would like to meet you, too.”

  They walked in silence a moment, then Jack said, “I wonder how old Harding’s axle is holding out. I’m sure not riding back to ask him. No need for there to be some sort of confrontation in front of Nina.”

  Brewster said, “I’ve seen situations where a father refuses to accept a man his daughter has her sights set on. It happens more often than you might think. It can tear a family apart.”

  “A similar thing happened in my mother’s family. They refused to accept Pa. He was about my age when they met, and he was a ramrod of a local cattle outfit.”

  “Ramrod?”

  Jack nodded. “The head man. The foreman. My mother’s father was the doctor in town and a man of education, and my Pa was a cattleman, and even though the bulk of his gunfighter years was behind him by then, he still wore his gun like a gunfighter. Even to this day, many people see gunfighter when they look at him.”

  Brewster was looking at him with amusement.

  Jack said, “Like father like son, I suppose.”

  “You know how to use your fists, and you wear your gun like you know how to use it. People tend to figure if you are good at fighting, there must be a reason for it. And a fight with a gun is usually one to the death.”

  “My mother’s parents refused to get to know him, to find out if there was something more beneath that gunhawk exterior. They wouldn’t even go to the wedding. Ma died before I turned five, and I don’t think she had seen her parents since before the wedding. I’ve seen my grandparents only twice, and that was on visits to California, where they live. They want little to do with my brother or sister or me, because they see our father in us. They blame him for my mother’s death, too, which just makes the rift even worse.”

  “I don’t mean to be out of line, but your father is quite well known. Legend has it that your mother took a bullet meant for him.”

  “That’s how the story goes. The truth is, though, it’s never been proven. She was shot, yes, and died in my father’s arms. The shooter was on a hillside just beyond the house, back when they lived in California. They had a small ranch there. The killer used a high caliber rifle, like a Sharps. He was never caught, so we never had any way of knowing for sure whether he was shooting at Pa and missed, or tried to hit Ma. We can assume he was trying to hit Pa because at one time he had a price on his head. The assumption was it was a bounty hunter, maybe not realizing the reward money on my father had been rescinded, and shot at him but missed and hit Ma. But there’s no way of knowing for sure.

  “Stories are spun about it and told in cattle camps and saloons, and they seem to grow with the telling. The same with some of my father’s exploits. The legend of my father creates a shadow that’s awfully easy to become lost in.”

  “The way you took off after those men last night, with a bullet wound in your shoulder no less, and brought Nina Harding back safely, is itself the stuff of legend. I don’t think it’ll be long before they’re talking about you in those saloons.”

  “Tell that to Nina’s father. I think he would get along well with my grandparents.”

  After a time, Jack stepped back into the saddle. He wanted to scout the back trail a little and look for any possible sign of pursuit.

  “Stay alert,” he said.

  “I have this pistol belted on, just like a real desperado,” Brewster said, and laughed. “I also have a shotgun right up there on the wagon seat. Even with one hand, I can cradle it with my other arm and still do some damage. You don’t have to be a crack shot to use a shotgun.”

  As Jack rode back along the small line of three wagons, Nina tossed him a smile from the wagon seat. He returned it, and touched the brim of his hat to her.

  Harding was prodding along the team, and didn’t miss the silent exchange. He glared at Jack.

  Jack decided he would be remiss in his duties as scout if he didn’t stop and check on a family with a questionable axle. Especially if it gave him the chance to pester Harding a little. Such a way was not usually Jack’s – he was his father’s son and preferred outright confrontation to subterfuge, but he had Nina to think of. If Harding and Jack got into a shouting match, or even worse began swinging fists at each other, she would be the one caught in the middle.

  It occurred to Jack that even if Harding didn’t realize this, he did. It would be up to him to take the high ground, but he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to dig at Harding a little.

  He gave the reins of his horse a little tug, and the horse stopped. He said, “You folks doing all right?”

  “Just fine, young man,” Emily Harding said. She was walking beside her husband, taking Jack’s advice and not riding in the wagon.

  Well, Jack thought, at least she apparently didn’t share her husband’s sentiments.

  To Nina he said, “You took a hard fall last night, miss. I hope you’re feeling all right.”

  Nina couldn’t help but smile at the sudden mock formality. She knew it was for her father’s sake. “I’m a bit bruised up, but I’m on the mend. Mrs. Brewster doesn’t think I broke any ribs.”

  He touched the brim of his hat once again, and gave her a smile and a wink. She returned the smile, nodding her head in acknowledgment of him tipping his hat to her, and he rode on.

  “I have to admit,” Emily Harding said to her daughter, “I do like him.”

  Nina’s father said to her, “I believe I said I do not want you associating with that boy.”

  Emily said, “Do as your father says, dear.”

  Harding turned away from them and focused his attention on the team.

  Emily said to Nina, “At least for now.”

  Harding said, “I heard that.”

  Jack passed Ford, tossing a nod his way. Ford was leading his oxen, and returned the nod. He held a shotgun in one hand, and a gunbelt was now buckled about his waist.

  Jack thought the gunbelt looked a little comical on Ford. The belt was buckled tightly and the gun rode high on his hip and a little to the front. He wore it like a man who had no idea how to use it, which essentially he was. But he had a shotgun, and Mister Brewster had been right. You don’t have to be a crack shot to be deadly with one of those. The question was, would Ford be able to actually fire the gun at another human being?

  Jack hoped it would not come to that. He estimated they would reach the way station within three or four hours, if they could maintain a steady pace. And if Harding’s axle held up.

  Jack rode to the crest of a long, low hill. He didn’t know what he really expected to see, because the day before Falcone and his men had apparently hung back enough so there were no clear signs of pursuit, then approached the camp after dark. The cook fires probably acted like beacons, visible from miles away.

  What he did see was a dust cloud further back on the trail. A stage, maybe? But no, the shape of the cloud told him it was being made by individual riders. No more than five, he thought. Maybe he was wrong. He had been wrong about the stage two days ago.

  Even if it was riders, he had no way of knowing if it was Vic Falcone and his men, but until he knew differently he would assume it was them. That they were coming for him.

  He rode back to the wagons and told Brewster what he had seen. Harding and Ford stopped their teams and walked forward to hear.

  “What do you think would be best?” Brewster said. “To continue on, or try to make some sort of stand here?”

  “His opinion doesn’t matter,” Harding said. “We’re going to wait here for them. We can’t hardly circle four wagons but we can back them together into a sort o
f a square shape.”

  Jack said, “Do you think you could actually kill a man? Could you actually look down the barrel of a gun, looking him in the eye, and pull the trigger? Because unless you’re absolutely sure, fortifying here would be a waste of time and get everyone here killed.”

  Brewster said, looking at Harding and Ford, “It’s harder than you might think. Killing a man.”

  Brewster was speaking as a war veteran.

  Harding met Brewster’s gaze firmly. “I am absolutely sure.”

  Jack didn’t know if Harding was serious, or just full of hot air in his cryptic way. He decided to ignore him.

  Ford said, “I was in the war.”

  Brewster was surprised. “You were?”

  Ford nodded. “Fought for the twenty-sixth Michigan.”

  Brewster said to Jack, “Ford only moved to our little town in Vermont maybe fifteen years ago. I didn’t know he was in the war.”

  Ford said, “I don’t talk about it much.”

  Well, Jack thought. This answered any questions he had about how well Ford would hold up in a fight.

  The wagons were brought about to form the roughly square configuration Harding had suggested, the teams unhitched and led away.

  Harding said, “After we’re done dealing with these men, we can round up the stock again.”

  When all was ready, the families within the fortified triangle of wagon, Jack climbed into the saddle.

  “Where are you going?” Ford said.

  Harding said, “Don’t matter where he’s going. We don’t need him. He’s proven himself unreliable.”

  Jack replied to Ford’s question, “I’m riding back along the trail, maybe half a mile. If it’s me they want, maybe they’ll leave you folks alone.”

  “No, Jack,” Brewster said. “We’re in this together. All of us.”

  But Harding said, “I say let him go. He’s done us no good at all. He’s actually brought trouble to us. If he’s the one those outlaws want, let them have him.”

  Ford said to Harding, “You’ve been a good friend over the years. But it’s time you shut your mouth.”

  “If it comes to a shooting match,” Jack said, ignoring Harding, “the one you need to take out first is the tall one. Long hair, a patch over his eye. He has only two fingers on his gun hand. Take him down first. He’s the most dangerous. Then focus on Falcone himself. He’s their leader.”

  And with that, Jack turned his horse and started back along the trail.

  His horse was showing exhaustion as he rode away. Normally this animal stepped along at a spirited clip, but now its steps were a little sluggish and it was starting to hang its head. Twice over a mile ride, Jack stepped out of the saddle and loosened the cinch so the horse could simply rest.

  Jack had been thinking maybe he would lead Falcone and his men on a chase, away from the settlers. But with his horse hanging its head from fatigue, jack knew this was going to be out of the question.

  After he had put a mile of grassland between himself and the settlers, he stepped out of the saddle and let the horse graze. If there was going to be a gunbattle, this spot was as good as any.

  Actually, he thought, it was a terrible location. His father had taught him to think tactically, and this hill was low and grassy, wide open without a single tree or rock for cover. But it would have to do.

  His arm was aching. Also, his head was aching from striking a piece of open bedrock when he went down. A lump had risen just above his ear, and his hat set gingerly on his head.

  What he would have liked, he thought, was to simply lie down. Maybe sleep for a while. But such a luxury was not to be his.

  His Winchester was waiting for him in his saddle. He decided to leave it there because he could see so far into the distance he would have more than enough time to grab the rifle if he saw riders coming.

  He drew his pistol and checked the loads. Only five cartridges were in the cylinder. He pulled one more cartridge from his belt and thumbed it in, then gave the cylinder a spin and slapped the pistol back into the holster.

  He looked about him. To the south, the land fell away in an arid flat stretch. To the west, there was grass that was largely green with spring, and maybe two miles in the distance was a ridge that was dark and hazy.

  At the base of the low hill he stood on, the trail began and sort of wound its way along south, disappearing into the distance. He estimated he could see maybe five miles. His brother Josh saw breathtaking vistas all the time and to him they were common place, and they were once to Jack, also. But now, living in the east and coming home for only a few months most every summer, he had learned not to take views like this for granted.

  And yet, it was hard to fully appreciate this, as he stood with an ache in his head from not only the collision with the rock the night before but also a lack of sleep, and a shoulder that felt bruised and sore.

  If I live to make it back to the ranch, I’m going to sleep for a week. He laughed to himself over the maudlin direction his mind was taking.

  After a time, he saw motion in the distance along the trail. A little dust was being kicked up, too. Four riders, he thought. They seemed to be moving along at a leisurely pace.

  He stood and watched as they gradually drew closer. He wished he had thought to bring along a pair of binoculars. At the general store in Cheyenne he had seen a scratched-up set of Army binoculars, but had left them there. Not good strategic thinking. It was clear to him that even though he had learned all he could from his father, he still lacked experience. Good Lord, I’m a greenhorn. A tenderfoot. He had never considered himself that way before. The thought didn’t settle well.

  The riders drew closer, and he realized none of them were Vic Falcone or Two-Finger Walker. Each of the four wore wide sombreros and shotgun chaps. Drovers, Jack thought. From Texas, maybe. If so, they were a long way from home.

  Jack swung into the saddle and rode down to the trail at the bottom of the hill to meet to meet them.

  They reined up.

  “Howdy,” one of them said. A long willowy man about Jack's age. He was a little bent in the shoulders, but in a relaxed way. Despite his build, there was a way of strength in his movements. “The name’s Barrow.”

  “Jack McCabe.”

  “Look like you’ve seen some trouble.”

  “We had a run-in with some riders last night. I’m scouting for a small wagon train that’s a few miles north of here.”

  “Wagon train?” Barrow shook his head. “You don’t see many of those, anymore.”

  “It’s a small one. Only four wagons. Three families of farmers trying to make to make their way north to the Montana hills.”

  Another man spoke. Shorter than Barrow. Stockier. Dark whiskers covered his jaw and matched his sombrero in color. “We came across a camp. Must’a been them riders you spoke of. They left a couple whiskey bottles on the ground. Such a thing can start a fire out here. Grass like this.”

  Jack said, “If you see them, stay clear of them.”

  “I doubt we’ll see them,” Barrow said. “From their tracks, it looks like they headed west.”

  “We’re drovers,” the stockier man said. “Just up from Texas. We delivered a herd to some buyers at Dodge City, and thought we might have a look around before we headed back.”

  A large Mexican said, “Good country. Good grass. A man could run cattle, here. It would sure beat working as a drover.”

  Jack nodded. “You’re near enough the railroad so you wouldn’t have to hire drovers to get your cattle to market, either. More profits for you. There was a time when the Sioux and Cheyenne made ranching here next to impossible, but those days are pretty much behind us, I think.”

  Barrow said, “You from these parts?’

  “Further north. Montana. That’s why I hired on to scout for the settlers I spoke of.”

  “You say your name is McCabe? Any relation to Johnny McCabe? They say he has a ranch up in Montana somewheres.”

  Jack nod
ded. “I’m his son.”

  Jack said he was going to be returning to the wagons, and appreciated the news that the outlaws he had spoken of had swung west.

  Barrow said, “you’re welcome to ride along with us, if’n you’d like.”

  They found the wagons where Jack had left them. Harding and Brewster and Ford all stepped forward when they saw the riders coming.

  Barrow said, “You weren’t kidding about trouble, were you? These wagons all fortified up like that. These folks are expecting trouble.”

  Jack said, “One of these men has a daughter who was kidnapped by those riders. I rode half the night getting her back.”

  Barrow looked at him with surprise. “You don’t say. You almost never hear of that sort of thing.”

  The Mexican said, “Comancheros, maybe. But we’re too far north for them.”

  “They’re not Comancheros,” Jack said. “But a couple of ‘em might be almost a dangerous.”

  Jack introduced the drovers to the settlers. Jack told them what Barrow and the others had said about Falcone and his men heading west.

  “Is that good news?” Brewster asked.

  Jack said, “It could be. The trail we’re on continues north for a little while more. If they continue riding due west, it means they might have given up on us.”

  Brewster shook his head and looked away into the distance. He said, “Jessica.”

  Jack said, “I’m so sorry. If there was anything I could do..,”

  “I know. Doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

  Jack decided sometimes the best thing to say is nothing. He dropped a hand onto Brewster’s shoulder, then turned and found Nina hurrying up to him.

  “Jack,” she said. “I was so worried.”

  “I’m all right,” he said.

  Harding glared at his daughter, but she ignored him. He took a step toward her and Jack like he was about to say something, but then backed off and walked away.

  “Is it true?” Nina asked. “Those men are gone?”

  He shrugged, and noticed the motion hurt his shoulder a little. “There’s no guarantee. But we can hope.”