Johnny McCabe (The McCabes Book 6)

by Brad Dennison

  “Mister Grant worried when you were gone so long.”

  “There was trouble, and these men helped me.”

  “I am glad they did.” He gave Johnny a level look. “For their sake.”

  “They are looking for work,” she said. “I was hoping they could find some on our ranch.”

  He shrugged. “That remains to be seen. We’ll ride back with you. And,” he looked at Johnny again, “it might be better if you hand over your guns.”

  Johnny said, “I’ve never handed over my guns. I’m not gonna start now.”

  “Goullie,” she said. “It’s all right. These men can be trusted.”

  The one she called Goullie gave Johnny a long look, then he turned his gaze to Joe. Goullie didn’t seem so sure, but he finally said, “All right. Follow us.”

  But only Goullie rode ahead of them. His men remained at either side, and two rode behind them. Apparently Goullie’s trust of them involved keeping them on a short leash. Johnny would have done the same in his place.

  They stopped after a couple of miles to rest their horses. Joe rolled a cigarette. The man with the white beard was smoking a pipe. Johnny decided to slide his rifle back into the scabbard.

  Johnny said to him, “So, this ranch is the Broken Spur, am I right?”

  Goullie nodded. He had chaw in his mouth, and spit some brown juice to the grass.

  “How much further till we get there?”

  “You’re on Broken Spur land, now.”

  Johnny said, “Owned by Breaker Grant.”

  Goullie looked at him. “You don’t sound like you’re from Texas.”

  “Not from here. But I rode with the Rangers, further south. Haven’t spent much time this far north. These here are my brothers.”

  “My name’s Gould. They call me Goullie.”

  Johnny said, “Our name’s O’Brien. I’m Johnny. This is Joe, and Matt.”

  Goullie extended a callused hand, and Johnny shook it.

  Johnny gave a short account of how they had met Maria. She had drifted over while he was talking, and she said, “His shot was the best I have ever seen.”

  Johnny said nothing.

  “Well,” Goullie said, “I’m sure Mister Grant will want to hear all about it. We’ve been here long enough. Let’s ride.”

  They saddled up, and Maria now rode behind Goullie. Johnny left his rifle where it was. As they rode along, with Goullie and Maria ahead of Johnny, he tried to think about all he had heard about Breaker Grant.

  An old man, if he remembered right. At least Pa’s age, if not older. But tough as rawhide. Had built the ranch himself, and some said the ranch was even bigger than the King Ranch, more than four hundred miles south of here.

  Johnny had found guessing a woman’s age was one of the more difficult things in life, but if Maria was older than he was, it wasn’t by much. Clearly young enough to be old man Grant’s daughter, and yet she had claimed to be his wife. To complicate matters, she had given Johnny a look earlier that was the kind a man wants from a woman who looked like she did.

  Johnny figured it would do no good to ponder questions he had no answers for, so he just rode along. He would find his answers soon enough.

  45

  Johnny figured they had covered four miles when they rode up a grassy hill that was higher and steeper than the others. From the top, he could see a collection of buildings maybe a quarter mile in the distance. One stood two floors high and was made of white adobe that gleamed in the sunlight. A front porch was shaded by a roof held up by a row of white pillars.

  Far to the right of the building were more structures, and from this distance, they looked like they were made of sun-bleached wood. Stables, Johnny figured, and a barn. Maybe one was a bunkhouse.

  Cattle were scattered about the low, grassy hills beyond the ranch. Maybe two or three hundred head. He saw a rider out there, moving through the cows.

  Matt said, “Is that herd just roaming free? Where are the fences?”

  The man with the white beard was riding beside him. He grinned. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

  Matt shook his head.

  Johnny said, “It’s not like back East, where pastures are fenced-off. Out here, a cow can roam for miles and not get lost.”

  “You call them cows. Aren’t there any bulls out there? Or steers?”

  Johnny was grinning, too. “You’ll learn.”

  Goullie reined up in front of the porch and with one hand eased Maria down to the ground, then swung out of the saddle himself and handed the reins to a Mexican man with a stocky build and wide shoulders.

  Goullie said, “Take care of my horse, Ciego.”

  “Yes sir, boss.”

  Maria was already up the steps and going through the front door. Goullie said to Johnny and his brothers, “Follow me.”

  They did. Up the steps and through the door. Johnny noticed it was made of oak, and looked to be engraved with what looked like laurel leaves at the corners. At the center of the door was a big brass knocker.

  This was no door that had been hammered together out of scrap wood, like the doors to a lot of cabins and sod huts Johnny had seen in Texas. This was store-bought, probably shipped in to Corpus Christi from somewhere back East, or maybe even Europe. Probably cost more than a cowhand’s yearly pay. If anyone had doubted that Breaker Grant had money, that doubt would be gone when they got a look at this place.

  The entryway was facing a stairway that went to the second floor. Johnny got a glimpse of Maria at the top of the stairs as she scurried away into a room.

  The man called Goullie said, “Wait here.”

  He went up the stairway, his dusty spurs jingling.

  The walls of the entryway were made of adobe, and two wooden framed arched doorways opened to other rooms. At least one was probably a parlor, Johnny figured, but the doors were closed.

  An armchair with green, velvet upholstery was at one side of the entryway, and a matching one was at the other. Overhead was a chandelier with dozens of crystal prisms. In the middle of the chandelier was a candle. The ceiling was twelve feet high, and Johnny had to wonder if you had to use a ladder to light the candle.

  In the corner by one of the chairs was a potted fern, and by the other chair was a small tree that was also potted. Johnny wasn’t educated enough in the finer things of life to know what kind of tree it was.

  Johnny had little interest in the finer things in life, anyway. He thought, Give me a good cabin that’s built tight, with a roaring fire and a good cup of coffee, and I’d be content. Give me a good woman and a brood of children to share the cabin with, and I’d be the happiest man on Earth.

  Joe sat in one of the chairs, to take weight off his leg. He stretched it out on the floor.

  “How’s that leg?” Johnny said.

  “I think I twisted my knee. Seems to be swelling a little. I don’t think anything’s broken, though.”

  Matt said, “I would say this Breaker Grant is not hurting for cash.”

  Johnny shook his head. “I’ve never seen this place, but I’ve heard talk of him clear to the Mexican border. They say he has one of the biggest ranches in Texas. Maybe the biggest.”

  Joe said, “What do they say about the man, himself?”

  “Not much. He rode with the Rangers back in the War with Mexico. He built this ranch with his own two hands out of the Texas grasslands.”

  “Sounds like a man I’d like.”

  Johnny nodded. He had to admit, he agreed with Joe. And yet he wondered about Maria, and the way she had looked at him. The way Johnny and his brothers had been raised, a married woman should have eyes only for her husband.

  “You know,” Matt said. “If anyone had any doubt about your ability with a gun, they wouldn’t if they had seen that piece of shooting you did.”

  Joe said, “The legend grows.”

  Johnny shook his head and turned away. “I hate talk like that.”

  Joe grinned. “That’s partly why we d
o it.”

  Johnny said, “Don’t neither of you go saying anything about the Gunman of the Rio Grande. They’ll connect that to my real name, and they’ll know who we are.”

  “Don’t think it’ll matter,” Joe said. “Word gets out about that piece of shootin’ you done today, they’ll be talking about it from the Mexican border all the way to the trading posts in Cheyenne country. Maybe all the way out to California.”

  “Then maybe it’s best we don’t mention it to anyone.”

  Matt shook his head. “She’ll be telling her husband. And you know once she starts talking about it, word will spread among the men here at the ranch.”

  Joe said, “That’s how legends grow.”

  “I’m not a legend,” Johnny said. “I’m just a man.”

  Matt nodded. “I’m sure Daniel Boone said the same thing. And Sam Houston.”

  Joe was grinning. “One day your bronzed baby shoes will be in a museum.”

  Johnny said, “I don’t want to hear any more talk like that.”

  Matt said, “In all seriousness, though, you did save her life. There’s no way I could have made that shot.”

  Joe said, “I could have shot him, but his gun would have gone off and she’d be dead, too. To shoot the man’s arm in a way that it would swing the gun out away from her is like nothing I’ve ever heard of being done before.”

  “They can talk about this without having to embellish it at all.”

  “I have to admit,” Joe said. “That woman has to be one of the prettiest I ever did see.”

  Johnny had to agree with him on that.

  Matt glanced about first, to make sure they were alone in the entryway, then he said, “I saw how she was looking at you back there. Like she wanted to eat you up.”

  Johnny said, “There’s something strange going on around here. I was thinking we should try to find work on this ranch, but now I’m wondering if maybe we should just ride on.”

  After a time, a man stepped onto the second floor balcony. He had a white beard, and long white hair fell to his shoulders. He was in a Spanish-style waist-length jacket and a string tie.

  “Gentlemen,” he called down to them. He had a voice that sounded like he enjoyed cigars and whiskey. “Come on up. I’d like to meet you all.”

  Joe found he could now put little weight on his injured leg, so he slung one arm around Matt’s shoulders and the other around Johnny’s. They lifted, and he bounced along on his toe up the stairs.

  Once they were on the second floor, the old man said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Breaker Grant, owner of the Broken Spur. The woman you rescued today is my lovely wife, Maria Carrera Grant.”

  “I hope she’s all right,” Johnny said. “She took two hard spills from a horse.”

  The old man nodded. “She’s off to the bath, and I’ve sent to town for the doctor. She seems to have injured a shoulder.”

  Grant looked at Joe. “You’re injured, too.”

  Joe nodded. “Yes, sir. Them men what were after your wife, they shot my horse out from under me. Hurt my leg when I fell.”

  “When the doctor gets here, we’ll have him check that leg out too, then.”

  “Much obliged.”

  They followed Grant into his office. Another man was pacing about by the desk. He was maybe thirty, with dark curly hair and dark eyes. He was in a bolo tie and a gray, Mexican jacket. The buttons caught Johnny’s attention. They were brass, with a pattern on them that Johnny thought as called a fleur-des-lis. French, which struck Johnny a little odd. You didn’t see many French symbols in Texas.

  Grant said, “This here’s my son, Coleman.”

  Coleman shook hands with the men. He said, “Maria told us what you did. We will be forever grateful.”

  “You boys must be hungry,” Grant said. “I insist you stay for supper. The cook’s preparing a real feast.”

  Coleman looked at his father, as if to say, are you serious? But the look was gone in a moment. If Johnny had blinked, he would have missed it.

  Coleman said, “Yes. We won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Well..,” Johnny said, and looked at his brothers.

  He had that feeling that something was wrong here more than ever. He wanted to just be riding on. But he didn’t know how to say no to Breaker Grant’s gracious hospitality. Matt looked at Johnny and shrugged his shoulders.

  Grant said, “It’s done, then.”

  Coleman gave an apologetic smile. “What my father wants, he gets.”

  “My lovely wife says you boys are looking for work.”

  “Well..,” Johnny started, again.

  “You’re all hired, starting today. Top pay.”

  Coleman looked at his father again, and he tried to repress that are you serious look again. This time it got away from him.

  “Coleman, show these men to the bunkhouse.”

  Coleman shrugged and said, “Follow me.”

  Grant isolated his gaze on Johnny. “I’d like a word with you, first. If you don’t mind.”

  Matt looked at Johnny and shrugged again, and he and Joe followed Coleman from the room. Joe had has arm around Matt’s shoulders and was hopping along.

  Grant said, “Do you like a good cigar?”

  Johnny hadn’t had a cigar since his last poker game in a cantina south of the border, nearly a year ago.

  He said, “I’d never turn down a good cigar.”

  Grant went to a box on his desk and flipped open the lid. “I got these all the way from Cuba. The best cigars in the world.”

  He held out the box to Johnny, and Johnny took one. Johnny didn’t want to bite off the end. It seemed like it would be uncivilized, in a house like this. While he tried to figure out what to do, Grant took a cigar cutter that looked like an ornamental pair of scissors and clipped off the end for him. Then Grant struck a match and Johnny held the cigar to the flame and puffed it to life.

  Grant brought his own cigar to life, and said, “My Maria, lovely girl that she is, described an impossible shot you made with a pistol, today. Maria is not taken to exaggeration.”

  Johnny said nothing.

  “She said you seemed to be aiming the pistol. In my experience, gunmen don’t actually aim a pistol, the way you would a rifle. They just point and shoot. Kind of an intuitive thing.”

  “Yessir,” Johnny said. “That’s usually the way. But for a shot like that, where the shot had to be exactly perfect, I’ve found I can aim the gun using the sight. My left-hand gun pulls a little to the right, where my right-hand gun is nigh onto perfect. I have to make sure which gun is in which holster.”

  Grant shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with quite that kind of ability. How can you tell them apart, to know which one is in which holster?”

  “There’s a scratch on the handle of my left-hand gun.”

  “There aren’t many with your kind of shooting skills. I don’t think I could even name five.”

  Johnny didn’t like the direction this was going. He decided to say no more, and drew in some smoke and let it out slowly.

  Grant smiled, “It is a good cigar, isn’t it?”

  Johnny said, “I’ve never tasted one like this before.”

  “With all due respect to the tobacco plantations in Virginia and the Carolinas, the finest cigars in the world come out of Cuba.”

  “I can easily believe it.” Johnny took in another puff on the cigar.

  “Goullie mentioned that you had ridden with the Texas Rangers.”

  Johnny nodded. “A couple of years.”

  Grant said, “Those pistols at your belt look to be Ranger-issue.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grant stood and said, “Let me show you something.”

  Johnny followed him to a gun rack standing in one corner on a bureau. The rack had glass doors, and Grant opened one and reached into the rack. He came out with a revolver.

  He said, “Ever seen one of these before?”

  He hand
ed it to Johnny.

  “Yes, sir,” Johnny said. “A Paterson Colt.”

  Johnny did like Uncle Jake had told him to do with a gun. Check to see that it was loaded. Every chamber of this gun had to be loaded manually with powder and a ball, and a percussion cap would be placed at the breech of each chamber. He pulled the hammer partway back and gave the trigger a little squeeze, which freed-up the cylinder, and he then turned it one notch at a time to make sure there were no percussion caps in place.

  Grant said, “Those guns were standard issue during the War.”

  “I had a set of my own, once. My uncle was a Ranger during the war, and he gave me his guns,” Johnny said. Then he realized he needed to guard against saying too much.

  Grant said, “Can’t say I knew a Ranger named O’Brien. But there were a lot of Rangers. A man couldn’t know all of them.”

  Grant walked back to his desk and his gaze fell on a decanter.

  He said to Johnny, “Do you like bourbon?”

  Johnny nodded. “I wouldn’t turn one down.”

  Grant filled two glasses and handed one to Johnny.

  Grant said, “My wife is a lot younger than I am.”

  Johnny shrugged. “It’s really none of my business, Mister Grant.”

  “She’s my entire world. She comes from a wealthy family that has a ranch down in Victoria County. I met her four years ago when I was down there on a business trip. We fell in love and married, and I brought her here. Those outlaws would have demanded a hardy ransom, from both me and her family.”

  Johnny said, “They had the look of Mexican border raiders. I chased border raiders when I was with the Rangers, but we’re a long way from the Mexican border.”

  Grant nodded. “Five hundred miles, more or less.”

  Grant poured the bourbon and handed Johnny a glass.

  Grant said, “Those outlaws are indeed Mexican. Or at least some of them are. They have apparently taken to hiding in some mountains, up in the Nations. Indian Territory. A range they call the Oachita Mountains, about forty miles northeast of here. We’ve chased them into those mountains, and lost them. They’ve been taking cattle from us. Started a stampede and then took some head. I don’t know if they’re selling beeves to the Indian tribes, the Cherokee or whoever, or what they’re doing.”