One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2)

by Brad Dennison

  Brewster was silent for a few moments, then said, “The men she ran off with are nothing like the McCabes.”

  “They’re gunhawks. All of ‘em. They live by the gun. They die by it. I don’t want Nina caught up in any of it. If I knew where their ranch house was, I’d ride out now and take care of things.”

  Brewster looked at him, his brows rising like brows tend to do when you hear something absurd. He said, “What – you would strap on your gun and have it out with the boy?”

  “If’n I had to. Don’t think I can’t.” Harding then looked at him suddenly, realizing he had said too much.

  But Brewster said, “Oh, for goodness sake, Harding. I know who you are.”

  Harding stared at him.

  Brewster said, “I was in the war.” He held up his left arm, which ended right at the wrist. “I know what it is to kill a man. I still see those battles in my dreams. And you have the look in your eye. I could tell when I first met you that you had killed before.”

  Harding continued to stare at him.

  Brewster said, “Vermont is not all that isolated from the world. I read newspapers. I hear talk. It didn’t take long to figure who you were. I never said anything, but I heard others talking and more than one person has figured it out.”

  Harding was staring at him intently. Disbelief. Anger.

  Brewster said, “None of us cared who you were. We cared about who you are now. What you brought to the community. What kind of man you are. What kind of husband to Emily. What kind of father. You’re a good man. It doesn’t matter who you were.”

  Brewster turned to fully face him. “If you rode out there, maybe you could beat that boy.”

  “I know I could.”

  “Maybe. I’m not so sure. But you’d also have to kill his father. And his brother. And I hear there’s another brother, too. You willing to kill all of ‘em?”

  “If’n I have to.”

  “Listen to yourself. Isn’t that exactly what you want to protect Nina from?”

  Harding didn’t know what to say. He turned his gaze back to the woods. He called out her name again.

  Brewster said, “Then, consider this. If you do fight that boy, it will be Nina who’s caught in the middle. Either that boy will shoot you, or you’ll shoot him. Or maybe you’ll both kill each other. But either way, whatever happens, you’ll be hurting Nina. Think about that.”

  Harding stood silently, looking at him.

  Brewster said, “Now let’s get the men together and find your daughter. It’s going to be dark soon and these are mighty big woods.”

  Nina ran. She was angry and hurt and scared, all at once. And so she ran.

  Father was going to rip her away from Jack. She had found something that made her feel like she was walking on air. A kind of wonderfulness Mother said came along at best only once in a life time, and often not even then. And now Father was going to rip her away from the man she loved and take her to another part of the world and she would never see him again.

  And so she ran.

  She heard a noise. A sort of roaring sound from somewhere behind her, in the distance. It was Father, she realized, calling her name. She didn’t care. She was not going back. She kept on running.

  She paid no attention to where she was going. She had covered the small expanse of meadow between the family camp and the edge of the woods in maybe twenty seconds – she had always been a good runner. It was her running ability that helped get her away from those outlaws back on the trail. Yes, Jack had certainly rescued her. But he wouldn’t have been in a position to do so if she hadn’t taken off from the camp like a rabbit and put some distance between herself and those men.

  Distance is what she wanted now. Distance from her father. Despite his towering demeanor that others thought intimidating, and his dark eyes and his tight-lipped almost snarly way of talking, and his voice that seemed to rumble deep in his chest, she had never doubted that he loved her. Not until tonight.

  And so she ran.

  She quickly found the forest here was much different than it had been back in Vermont. The woods she had known at the edge of her family’s farm were tangled with underbrush. Thorns and junipers and such. And the ground had been covered with dried leaves. But these woods were clean. There was an occasional bush or a deadfall that she had to run around, but for the most part there was very little underbrush. The trees were pine and grew straight and tall, and sometimes as many as a few yards apart. You could ride a horse through these woods, she thought. And the earth was covered with pine straw, which allowed her to run almost silently. Occasionally she would step on a dried stick and it would crack, but otherwise there was none of the noisy crunch-crunch you would get in a forest back in Vermont.

  The smooth soles of her shoes were slippery on the pine straw, and at one point a foot slid out from under her and she fell. Her momentum carried her face-forward into the pine straw.

  She waited a few moments, her heart hammering in her ears, while she waited for any pain. There was none. She seemed to be able to wiggle both feet. She didn’t think she had hurt herself.

  She pushed herself to her feet and continued running.

  Her dress was cumbersome and her shoes kept sliding on the pine needles, but still she ran. Sweat began to roll down her face and neck and soak her dress through the back, but still she ran.

  She realized she was running uphill. The land now rose before her. She was running up a slope. Her feet began to slip more now, and soon she was walking more than climbing. The slope became steeper the more she climbed.

  A rabbit darted away from fifty yards ahead of her. A bird that sounded like the crows back home called out from somewhere above. Probably perched on a tree branch.

  The slope leveled out and she came to an open area. She stood on an outcropping of bedrock and looked at the open space that fell away beneath her, and her jaw fell open. For a moment her anger at her father was forgotten.

  The pines covering the slope below formed a dense blanket of green, and beyond them was a large grassy area. Maybe the valley floor Jack had spoken of. There was a house that looked tiny in the distance, and she could see smoke rising from a stone chimney.

  Beyond the house was another ridge, this one a dark green because of more pine growth, and with a sharp rocky promontory toward the top. The breeze was strong and cool and refreshing at this height.

  A dark bird with a large wing span was sort of gliding about in the winds overhead. She didn’t know what kind of bird it was, but the feathers at the tips of the wings sort of looked like fingers. She thought it must be a hawk of some sort.

  She untied the bandanna from her hair and used it to wipe the sweat from her face and neck.

  She wondered if the house was Jack’s. The McCabe ranch house. She was suddenly filled with the feeling that she wanted to see him. She wanted to be in his arms. Everything felt all right when she was with Jack. And his father would be there. Jack was right about the man’s presence. It was almost like there was some sort of aura about him. You just felt reassured that everything would be all right when he was near. She could see how growing up in this man’s shadow could be intimidating, but right now she needed the reassurance that being with Jack and being in the company of his father brought.

  She looked toward the west. There were ridges in the distance, and very far away, a rounded peak. And the sun was drifting down near them. She realized it was going to be dark soon. If she was going to make the house with the stone chimney before nightfall, she had best get moving.

  She tied the bandanna back over her hair and began down the slope. She didn’t quite run as the slope was steep and the pine needles underfoot slippery, but she didn’t walk, either. She was not good at guessing distances, but she thought she had at least half a mile to cover. Maybe more. She didn’t want to be caught in these woods after dark.

  The land began to level out a little, and she increased her pace. Soon she was running again.

  She hoped s
he was holding to a straight course. She had heard of men getting turned around in the woods. She had no compass and no real way to gauge the direction. The woods about her were becoming kind of dark as evening came on.

  One foot slipped and both feet went out from under her and she went sliding a couple of feet on her butt.

  She was glad no one was there to see that. The puffiness of her skirt and the layers under it had cushioned her fall, but had not protected her pride from being bruised.

  She got to her feet and continued running.

  The hurt and the anger toward her father was now pushed to the back of her mind while she focused on getting to the bottom of this slope and to the open, grassy valley floor before it got too dark to see. She ran along, not quite going at top speed as it would be too difficult to maintain her footing in these slippery shoes. But she maintained a steady pace. She was breathing deeply, sucking in air as she ran. Sweat was again running down her neck and back.

  Then the earth suddenly seemed to give way beneath her. She didn’t know what was happening but she was suddenly falling. She reached out wildly with her hands, grabbing at wet bare earth. A sort of wall of dirt. And then she slammed hard into something.

  It took her a moment to catch her breath. She then looked about her and saw she was in some sort of pit. It was maybe four feet wide, and there were rocks at the bottom. And a little water and a lot of pine straw. The sides of the pit were earthen and almost perfectly perpendicular to the pit’s floor. Like they had been dug with a shovel or a pick axe.

  The pit looked deep. Maybe six or seven feet. She would have to climb out. She could see pines overhead, outside the pit. They were dark, as sunset was fast approaching. It was even darker here in the pit.

  She could afford to waste no time, she knew. She had to get out of these woods before it became fully dark. She rose to her feet and then felt sudden, sharp pain in one ankle. She fell back to the wet pine straw at the bottom of the pit.

  She reached for her ankle. It was not particularly sore to touch, but when she tried to wiggle her foot sharp pain shot through the joint.

  I’ve broken my ankle. Here I am, at the bottom of a pit in the middle of the woods and it’s getting dark and I’ve broken my ankle!

  She sucked in air and let out a loud, shrieking, “Help!”

  But there was no one on the slope to hear. She waited, breathing heavily while the sound of her scream faded in the distance. She was alone, in the middle of the woods, in some sort of pit. Her ankle was broken, and it was getting dark fast.

  31

  First thing Brewster did, before it was even light and before his first cup of coffee, was to knock on the door of the man called Hunter.

  He explained the situation. “Harding’s daughter ran off after an argument, and she’s been gone all night.”

  “In these woods?” Hunter was a little incredulous. He was also blinking his eyes with sleepiness. He stood in his undershirt and levis, with a gun in his hand. Someone starts banging on the door as frantically as Brewster had been before the sun is even in the sky, he answered the door with a gun.

  “We were hoping you could help.”

  Within five minutes, Hunter was in a range shirt and a sombrero, and a gunbelt was buckled around his waste. He was not a fast draw and had no pretenses of being so, and did not wear his gun hanging low or tied down. It was up on his hip where he could reach it if need be, but otherwise out of the way. He was striding toward the meadow where the settlers were camped. Brewster was almost having to run to keep up with him.

  The sky was growing lighter as sunrise was drawing closer. The woods were filled with the sort of hush that comes right before the night ends and the day begins. Sort of like the Earth is holding its breath, waiting for the majesty of the coming of the new day.

  Harding glared at Brewster. “What do you think he can do?”

  Hunter didn’t wait for Brewster to answer. He said, “I can track. I been living out here most of my life. I was raised in these mountains, about two hundred miles south of here. Been livin’ in this valley or near it for more’n ten years.”

  “Then, let’s get going.”

  “Harding, it’s not light enough. We gotta be able to see the tracks to follow ‘em.”

  Mildred Brewster said, “I can put some coffee on.”

  Hunter looked from Harding to Brewster. “Sometimes the best thing you can have when you’re tracking is patience. It’s more important than luck.”

  Emily Harding was there, looking like she was standing so alone even though her husband was only a few feet from her.

  Hunter said to her, “I’m sure she’s all right.”

  Emily nodded.

  Harding said, “I’m sure she is, too. But I’ll feel better once we find her.”

  Emily gave him a look. A long, hard look. Then she turned and walked away toward their tent.

  Hunter thought sometimes a woman can say more with just a look than she ever could with words.

  The coffee was brewed and Hunter was handed a tin cup. He stood and drank coffee while the others standing about him did the same, and they waited for the sky to lighten.

  When Hunter’s cup was empty, he handed it back to Mildred Brewster, then he drew his revolver and checked the loads. It was a Colt Army .44, a cap-and-ball revolver which meant you had to manually load powder and a bullet in each chamber and then put a percussion cap on a short metal tube called a nipple toward the front. Kind of time consuming. Those new Peacemakers that took metallic cartridges, like the one Dusty had and Franklin was holding for Johnny, could be reloaded in a fraction of the time. Hunter carried in his vest pocket a pre-loaded cylinder so if his gun ran out of bullets he could pop out the spent cylinder and put in a fresh one and keep on firing. Johnny McCabe just carried two pistols so he could get off ten shots before reloading.

  The loads all looked good. Hunter kept one chamber empty, and repositioned the cylinder so the empty chamber was in front of the hammer, then slid the revolver back into the holster.

  It was light enough for him to see the percussion caps in his pistol, so he decided it was light enough for him to see tracks.

  He said, “Let’s go.”

  Oftentimes grass will bend beneath the foot of a person or an animal, and it can be a few hours before the grass stands fully upright again. However, too many hours had passed since Nina had run through the grass between her family’s camp and the edge of the woods.

  Hunter said, “Do we know if she ran straight towards the woods, or if she ran through the meadow back toward town?”

  Harding said, “If she had run back toward town, I would have seen her when I went after her. I’ve gotta figure she ran straight to the woods.”

  Hunter nodded. Good enough for him. He headed for the woods. The others followed. Ford was with them, as was Age. The grass was still a little wet with morning dew, and Hunter felt the wetness soaking into the knees of his pants.

  Once they were in the woods, he found a tuft of kicked-up pine straw. Then another a little further ahead.

  “Was she running?” he said.

  Harding nodded. “Most likely.”

  “This was kicked up by something running. Probably her.”

  They followed a little further along. Trouble with tracks was that even though Nina’s footsteps might have been consistent, the earth beneath her feet was not. In some places the pine straw was thicker than others. In some places it was a little damp, in others it was dry. The kicked-up tufts of pine straw were not consistent. Hunter would find one, and then no more for maybe fifty feet.

  Finally, as they began to climb a slope, he could find no others. He found a broken stick on the ground and knew it might have been cracked by Nina running across it, or it might have cracked for any number of other reasons.

  He shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Brewster said.

  “This is gonna be half guess-work and half luck. We need a real tracker.”

  H
arding said, “I thought you said you were a real tracker.”

  “I can track. But I ain’t no expert at it. Not a trail like this, made by a girl afoot more than ten hours ago. We almost need a Shoshone for this. Or the next best thing.”

  He looked to Age, and said, “Who’s the fastest rider here?”

  Age said, without hesitation, “Me.”

  Hunter thought so, which was why he looked at Age.

  Hunter said, “Run down to the livery. Tell Old Jeb I sent you. Tell him to give you a horse and to saddle it mighty quick. I want you to follow the trail that starts in the woods just behind my saloon. Follow it all the way through. It’s marked right clear and is easy to follow. Follow it all the way to the end. It comes out in the valley. Where the trail ends, at the edge of the woods, you’ll see a house maybe a quarter mile away. That’s the McCabes’ spread. Tell ‘em what’s goin’ on and bring ‘em back fast as you can.”

  Age glanced at his father who gave a nod of his head, and Age said, “Yes, sir.”

  And Age turned and began back toward the meadow at the kind of light, quick-stepping sprint only a boy can muster.

  Harding turned his dark eyes onto Hunter. “We don’t need their help.”

  Hunter said, “Beggin’ your pardon, but I think we do. Johnny McCabe can track a fish through water, and Dusty’s about as good. Jack and Josh ain’t much behind ‘em. If you want to find your daughter in these woods, we need men who can do the job.”

  The McCabes were just sitting down to breakfast when Age came galloping in. It was Bree’s turn to make breakfast. Jack had a cup of coffee in his hand and was about to attack a couple of strips of bacon. Aunt Ginny had just poured a cup of Earl Grey and was gently lowering herself into her chair. Aunt Ginny never simply dropped into a chair.

  “Who could that be at this hour?” Ginny said at the sound of drumming hooves from outside.

  Frantic knocking began on the kitchen door and Dusty opened it to find Age. It took Age maybe twenty seconds to explain the whole thing, out of breath and rattling off his words, and the men left their breakfast behind and went to grab their guns. Bree went out to tell Fred to saddle three horses. Within ten minutes, Johnny and his two sons were gone, riding toward the trail that would take them out behind Hunter’s.