Trail Drive (The McCabes Book 5)

by Brad Dennison

  He saw a billboard tacked to a wall. A company was looking for drivers to take freight to Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. He signed on. He had learned to drive a buggy from the family chauffer, and didn’t think handling a freight wagon could be all that different.

  By the time he arrived in Santa Fe, his hair was growing unkempt and he had a fine beard starting to cover his jaw. His once fine trousers had a hole in one knee and his shirt was stained from dust, sweat and campfire smoke.

  He got a job as a drover, and with his money from driving the freight wagon, he bought clothes for the job. Tight-fitting riding boots. Trousers of that canvas-like material they were starting to call denim. He knew little about firing a gun, but it was said a cowhand needed one so he bought a pistol and a gunbelt. Turned out the main reason a cowhand or a drover needed a gun was so if you were thrown from the saddle and your foot stuck in the stirrup, you had a chance to shoot your horse before you were dragged to death. The dime novels would tell you about shootouts with outlaws and attacks by Indians, but the actual number-one cause of death among cowhands and drovers was being thrown from your horse and dragged.

  His adventures eventually led him north, to Montana Territory. Three cowhands had gotten themselves into a tussle with Josh McCabe. Utter foolishness to even try that, Charles thought. But they had tried it anyway. One of them wound up with a bullet in his shoulder. Another was a man named Reno, and he was taken down by Josh in an epic fight at Hunter’s that was still being talked about. There were now some openings on the payroll, and Josh hired Charles.

  Josh never asked Charles about his background. He just asked him what he knew about cattle and horses. By the time Josh hired him, Charles had worked as a drover on two herds brought north to the railheads from Texas and then worked at a number of ranches. Josh asked Charles what name he used, and Charles told him Fat Cole. That’s what most folks had taken to calling him.

  Josh said, “Fat, you’ve got yourself a job.”

  Charles had never stayed in one job for long, but he found a home on the McCabe ranch. Partly because of Bree, and partly because of the McCabe family itself.

  As much as Charles loved Bree, though, he had never told her a lot about his family. Only that his father was physically rough with him and that he had left home. He never talked about the family money. He had never told anyone about that. He didn’t want people looking at him any different. Once they find out your father made more money in a week than most cowhands did in a year, they didn’t look at you the same. Money somehow made you a prince, and Charles didn’t want to be a prince. He wanted to make an honest living with his own two hands, and to eventually find the love of a good woman and raise children. Values he came by because of his friends, the boys who were sons of working men, back in New York.

  Charles had seen something in their families that was absent in his own. He realized at fifteen what was truly valuable in the world were the intangibles. These working families were richer in what really mattered than his own family could ever be. But to find what they had, he had to leave his family’s money behind and go out into the world. He had been coming to this realization on my own, but his father had hastened things along.

  On this cool early summer morning, while most of the men were off on a trail drive and Charles and Fred were minding the store here at the ranch, he was swinging an axe and splitting some firewood. He was going to fill the wood box in the kitchen and then the other one in the parlor. He was also going to fill the small wood box in the bunkhouse.

  Even though he was built long and narrow, he was strong and he brought the axe down through the wood like a knife through butter. The two chunks of wood sprang away as if they had a life of their own.

  Most cowhands hated to work on their feet. Josh and Dusty would do it, but complained like an old woman about it. A real cattleman works in the saddle, they would say. But Charles didn’t mind it. He didn’t mind any kind of work that had him outdoors, working with his hands.

  He didn’t wear gloves. He had found he liked the callouses on his hands. Callouses gained from honest work.

  Even though it was cool, he had tossed his hat and jacket to the grass. Splitting wood can work up a sweat.

  As he worked, the kitchen door opened and Bree came bursting out. She seemed to never just walk, she bounded. She didn’t just walk down the back steps, she skipped down. And she did it with a sort of moving poetry that captivated him. She was carrying two steaming cups of coffee, one in each hand, and managed to somehow not spill a drop as she sort of half-walked, half-skipped over to him. Her pony tail was long and dark, and it bounced and swayed as she moved.

  She rose up on her toes and he bent down a little, and they gave each other a quick peck. The kind a loving couple does when they have been together a while and become familiar with each other.

  “I brought some coffee out for you, sir,” she said with a smile.

  “Why, thank you, ma’am.” He swung the axe with one hand and buried the edge in the chopping block, and then took the cup.

  “It’s cool this morning,” she said, holding her cup with both hands so the heat of the coffee would keep her hands warm.

  “The breeze is coming from the northwest. Just the way I like it. It’s good weather to work hard in. Hard work warms you up.”

  Charles took a sip of the coffee. It was thick and black and bitter. Trail coffee. He had gotten used to it on that first trail drive, all those years ago. Regular coffee now struck him as thin and watery.

  Bree gave Charles a smile. Not for any reason in particular, just the smile of a woman who was in love with her man. A smile he had dreamed of seeing her give him, but never thought she would. As he stood there, hot coffee in one hand, the cool morning Montana breeze washing over him and a beautiful girl like Bree flashing him a smile full of love, he thought that was the luckiest man alive.

  “Hey, Chuck!” Fred called from somewhere over toward the barn.

  Bree rolled her eyes. “I hate that. I told them all to start calling you Charles.”

  “Well,” Charles said, “you gotta admit, it’s better than Fat.”

  She gave a sigh and a reluctant nod. “It’s better than Fat.”

  Charles looked over toward the barn. Fred was walking away from it with a saddle slung over one shoulder. He was going to move some horses to a large corral he and Charles had been building down a little ways toward the center of the valley.

  Charles called back, “Yeah, Fred?”

  Fred said, “Rider comin’.”

  Then Charles heard the clatter of iron horse shoes on the wooden bridge out yonder.

  He said to Bree, “I could look in your eyes all day, but I guess we better go see who our guest is.”

  She said, “You always know the right thing to say, you know that?”

  He shrugged. “There are those who would say I never say anything right. I guess you just bring it out in me.”

  With his coffee in one hand, he took her hand with his other one and the two of them strolled toward the front of the house.

  They stood just beyond the front porch. She let go of him and gripped her cup with both hands again, and took a sip. From where they stood, the barn blocked their view of the trail that led down to the wooden bridge, but within a few seconds the rider came around the barn and within sight.

  Charles said, “It’s Marshal Falcone.”

  “Dang,” she said. “Where’s my gun?”

  31

  When Vic Falcone had first taken the marshal’s job in town, he had been a dapper dresser. Usually a black or gray jacket and a checkered vest and either a string tie or a bolo. But today he was in a blue range shirt and a leather vest, and jeans. His gun was hanging low and tied down, and his tin star was pinned to his shirt.

  Bree and Charles watched him ride toward them, and she said, “I still don’t trust that man.”

  Charles said, “Can’t blame you. Many folks around here probably never will.”

  Falco
ne reined up in front of them.

  “Mister Cole,” he said, in his theatrical baritone. “Miss Bree.”

  He tipped his hat to her. She nodded curtly.

  “Mornin,’ Marshal,” Charles said. “Nice day for a ride.”

  “Indeed it is. Mind if I step down and rest my horse?”

  Fred had dropped his saddle and walked over, and reached for the reins. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  Bree said, “I suppose the neighborly thing would be to offer you some coffee.”

  “That would be greatly appreciated.”

  They went to the porch where there was a rocker, two straight back chairs, and a bench. From here, they had a good view of the wooden bridge down below, and the low, grassy hills that stretched off toward the center of the valley.

  Bree went in to fetch the marshal a cup of coffee. She came back with a tray that held a coffee pot and a cup. Charles also noticed she had buckled on her gun.

  Aunt Ginny followed her out.

  “Marshal,” she said, in her grand, high-society way.

  “Miss Ginny.” He rose to his feet and fully removed his hat.

  Everything this man did was with a theatrical flair. Charles imagined he couldn’t scratch his nose without doing it like an audience was watching.

  She lowered herself to her rocker. She didn’t just drop into it. She lowered herself gracefully. In one hand was a small saucer and balancing on it flawlessly was a cup of tea.

  “Please, sit,” she said.

  Falcone did so, and dropped his hat to the floor beside his chair.

  He took a sip of coffee. Bree had brought him the raw trail coffee. Charles could tell by the smell of it.

  “Ah, excellent,” he said.

  “So, Marshal,” Aunt Ginny said, “I would like to congratulate you on the election.”

  He nodded his head in a short bow. “Why, thank you. I’ll admit, I was a little surprised by the result.”

  “You didn’t expect to win?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not really. Not considering the grudge I’m sure many people in the area hold against me.”

  Bree said, “Can you blame them?”

  “Bree,” Aunt Ginny said.

  “No, it’s quite all right,” Falcone said to Aunt Ginny, then to Bree, “No, I cannot blame them.”

  “There are many who feel you owe a debt to society, regardless of how you managed to get those charges against you dropped.”

  Aunt Ginny gave a sigh of resignation, and shook her head.

  But Charles admired Bree for her gumption. She didn’t back down from anyone. She would stand toe-to-toe with a grizzly if that grizzly had gotten her riled up.

  Charles wasn’t here three summers ago when Falcone and his band of raiders attacked this ranch, but he had heard about it. Josh and Dusty had talked about it in detail one night over a campfire. And Bree still talked about it some. Charles couldn’t blame these folks for the way they felt.

  What the marshal said was, “I don’t know what prison would do, Miss Bree. It wouldn’t in any way make up for what I did. The kind of man I had let myself become. As for debts, I feel the debt I owe is to your father. And to the people of this valley. That’s one of the reasons I took this job.”

  She wanted to say something. Charles could see the fire in her eyes. But at the moment, the marshal didn’t sound like an actor in front of an audience. He just sounded like a man baring his soul.

  Bree said nothing, and took a sip of her coffee.

  “So, Marshal,” Aunt Ginny said. “What brings you all the way from town this fair morning?”

  “Well,” he glanced at Charles. “I actually came out here to see Mister Cole.”

  Charles blinked with surprise. “Me?”

  “Indeed. You see, we’ve had a small situation in town that I thought I should make you aware of.”

  Charles was listening.

  “There’s a man who rode in on the stage a couple weeks ago. He’s been asking about you.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He said his name is Harris Wellington. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  The name meant nothing. Charles shook his head and said, “It’s no name I’ve ever heard before.”

  “He’s probably about my age. A little heavy-set. A grayish handlebar mustache.”

  Charles shook his head again.

  “He has been asking for you at various places. The Second Chance. The hotel. Johansen’s. Flossy told me about it first, then Hunter mentioned it yesterday morning when I went there for coffee.”

  Bree said, “Did you think of maybe asking him?”

  Aunt Ginny shot her a look that said, mind your manners. Charles couldn’t help but crack a grin.

  If Falcone was perturbed, he didn’t let on. He said, “A lawman has to be careful. To simply approach him with questions might imply that I suspected him of being some sort of a threat. He hasn’t broken any laws.”

  “All right, marshal,” Charles said, “I’ll ride in with you. Have a look at this man.”

  Bree gave Charles a look that told him she didn’t like that idea. She didn’t trust Falcone. Bree was sweet and kind, unless you ticked her off. Once her dander was up, it didn’t let down easily. And when it came to Falcone, Charles supposed she had reason good reason.

  Charles saddled up while the marshal finished his coffee, they they both mounted up.

  Bree said to him, “Please be careful. And don’t trust this man.”

  Charles said, “I think it’ll be all right.”

  “Come home to me safe.”

  He nodded and said, “It’s a promise.”

  Bree stood and watched the man she loved riding down toward the wooden bridge with Victor Falcone.

  32

  Charles and Falcone rode along Jubilee’s main street.

  Falcone said, “He’s been spending much of each day at the Second Chance. A saloon’s usually a good place when you’re looking for someone. They’re like clearing houses for information.”

  “I’ll take a ride over.”

  “Before you do,” Falcone said, “is there anything I should know? Any reason a man should be looking for you? I ask because if there’s to be trouble, it would make my job a lot easier if I were aware of it beforehand.”

  Charles shook his head. “I don’t have any enemies in the world. At least as far as I know. I can’t imagine who would be looking for me, or why.”

  “One thing—I’ve also heard he might have a gunfighter with him. I don’t know how accurate this is. I’ve seen Wellington but he’s always been alone.”

  Falcone reined up in front of his office. “I’ll be here at the office if you need me.”

  “Thank you, Marshal.”

  Charles rode with his gun belted high on his hip. He was no gunfighter and had no pretense about it. He was in jeans and wore an old, tattered vest over a range shirt. His hat was a dark gray and had been freshly blocked a year ago in town, with a rigid, flat brim and a flat crown. Over the past year, the crown had gotten rounded up and the brim was starting to become a little floppy.

  He swung out of the saddle in front of the Second Chance and gave the rein a turn around the hitching rail, and went on in.

  The old Chinese man he knew as Mister Chen was pushing a broom. Mister Chen was thin and no taller than Bree. His hair was white and he had a wispy goatee.

  “Mornin’, Mister Chen,” Charles said.

  “Morning, Fat. Excuse me,” Chen said with a smile. “Charles.”

  Charles grinned. “The marshal told me there’s a man here in town looking for me.”

  Chen nodded his head toward the corner of the room. A man was sitting alone at a table, his back to the room. He was the only one in the room, aside from Chen and Charles.

  Charles walked over to the table and said, “Excuse me.”

  The man turned around in his chair. He was in a gray jacket and a checkered vest and strin
g tie. He looked to be about the same age as Mister McCabe, but had the soft look of a man who doesn’t do much hard work.

  The man said, “Jehosaphat Cole?”

  Charles nodded, repressing a grin at the name. The name had always struck him as a little outlandish. Not as bad as his brother’s name, though.

  Charles said, “I understand you’ve been asking for me.”

  He nodded. “You’re a hard man to track down. Please, sit. Join me for a coffee.”

  Charles agreed. The man had a cup in front of him, and Chen fetched another one for Charles.

  The man said, “My name is Harris Wellington, Esquire. I’m an attorney for one Adolphus Cole.”

  “My brother.”

  He nodded. “The very same.”

  Chen set the cup in front of Cole. The man called Harris Wellington, Esquire ignored Chen, but Charles said, “Thank you, Mister Chen.”

  Charles then said to Wellington, “I have to ask, why would my brother send his attorney looking for me? I haven’t seen the family in years.”

  Wellington nodded. “So, am I to presume you haven’t heard the news?”

  “What news? When I left New York, I left my old life behind me. I haven’t looked back.”

  “Then, I’m afraid I have to inform you of some bad news. Your parents have passed from this Earth. Your father died in a riding accident. He was at the club and was thrown from his saddle. It was said he died instantly. Your mother died in her sleep a few weeks later. She apparently never recovered from the shock of losing your father.”

  Charles let the news settle in. His parents were dead. He realized he felt nothing. He supposed they had all been essentially dead to him the moment he walked away from them.

  Wellington said, “Your brother Adolphus is the only family you have left.”

  Charles said, “Mister Wellington, I don’t mean to sound callous, but they stopped being my family years ago. There was little love in that household, and I walked away from it. Like I said, I haven’t looked back. I doubt Dolph considers me family, and I’m not sure I consider him to be.”