Trail Drive (The McCabes Book 5)

by Brad Dennison

  “That’s a harsh thing to say about one’s family.”

  Charles shrugged. “I don’t mean it to sound harsh. But you didn’t grow up in that household.”

  “Well, whether you consider your brother to be family or not, you are officially half-owner of a huge estate. You are a very rich man, Mister Cole.”

  “You’re right. I am rich. Rich in the ways that truly count. I’m now surrounded by good people in my life, and I have work that I love. I don’t want the money. I’m willing to sign whatever I have to sign. Dolph can have it all.”

  Wellington shook his head. “Mister Cole, it’s not that simple. You can’t simply sign your inheritance away. Oh, there are documents you can sign, yes. But there is nothing to stop you from going to court at some point down the road and suing to reclaim it. When there is money of this magnitude involved, really anything is possible.”

  Charles got to his feet. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mister Wellington. But I don’t want the money. I’m not taking it. Please try to get that through my brother’s head. My life is here, and that’s all there is to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ranch to run.”

  Charles stepped out the front door. Hunter was there, a smoldering cigar in one hand.

  He said, “What’s that all about, in there?”

  “Just a man, trying to draw me back into a life I left behind.”

  Hunter nodded. “A lot of folks I’ve met in the West are running from a life they left behind. Are you in any kind of trouble?”

  Charles shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.”

  Charles swung into the saddle and cut around the side of the saloon, and to the back trail that would lead him to the ranch.

  He had left behind the life he no longer wanted. Now he was having to do it again. He wondered how many times he was going to have to do this. He truly hoped his brother would understand and leave him alone.

  33

  Bree understood that when a man ran a cattle ranch, he sometimes had to be gone for a day or two. Those cow farms back east had pastures that were fenced off, and the white-faced cattle were short-legged and couldn’t move all that fast. But out here in the west, they raised longhorns. Cows that had magnificent horns stretching away to either side of the head, and the cows were longer legged and could run like a horse. As such, a ranch in the west needed acres and acres for these critters to graze.

  Bree was proud of Charles. Pa had left him in charge of the ranch while the rest of them were gone on the trail drive, and Charles was taking the responsibility seriously. But she also hated to see him go.

  She stood on the front porch and said, “I’m going to miss you.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and said, “I’ll probably be back tomorrow. Midday, or so.

  She nodded. She understood. Pa had left two line riders out there to patrol the outreaches of the ranch. They stayed in a small dugout cabin that served as a line shack. Pa had always said that this was a working ranch, and it was good for the ramrod to make an appearance out there every so often. Now that Josh was the ramrod, he operated on that belief, so Charles thought he should do the same while he was acting ramrod.

  His horse was saddled and waiting for him, tethered to a hitching rail in front of the porch. His soogan was tied to the back of his saddle, and a Winchester was in the saddle boot. Two canteens were draped over the saddle horn.

  He stood tall in front of her. His Boss of the Plains hat had a crown that was a little taller than the flat-crowned hats you saw worn by the men on a cattle outfit, and it made him seem even taller.

  A pair of leather chaps were strapped over his jeans, and his gunbelt was buckled over his hips. He was no gunfighter, and the way he wore his gun showed it. Bree thought she liked that, though. Josh and Dusty wore their guns like they knew how to use them—Pa said Dusty was the best he ever saw with a gun, and coming from Pa, that meant something. Even though Jack was a scholar, he was at heart a gunhawk. But as much as she respected Pa and the boys, she was glad Charles was not a gunhawk. She was glad he was just a normal cowpoke. Good-hearted and hard-working, and she had no doubt he loved her. She could see it in his eyes every time he looked at her. But he didn’t know how to kill, and there was no trail of bodies left in his wake. He wouldn’t be jumpy the way Pa was, ready to draw and shoot every time the fire in the hearth snapped.

  He gave her a kiss, which had started out like a see you tomorrow kiss, but then she wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and his arms were around her back pulling her toward him, and it turned into a I love you so much I can’t stand it kiss.

  Then he said, “I’m going to miss you too, you know.”

  She nodded her head.

  He said, “But your Pa left me in charge of the place. He’s trusting me, and I have to show I’ve earned that trust.”

  She nodded again. She said, “Go. But come back to me safe.”

  “That I will.” He grinned. “Maybe a little dusty and saddle-sore, but I’ll be back.”

  She returned the grin.

  He said, “You sure you’ll be all right while I’m gone.”

  “We’ll be all right. Mister Middleton has gone on some sort of business trip, but Fred’s here.”

  Sam Middleton had lit out two days earlier. He was vague about where he was going and so was Aunt Ginny. She had said he had a small business trip to make and would be back when he could be. A lot about Sam struck Bree as mysterious, but when she tried to talk about it with Aunt Ginny, her aunt tried to assure her that everything was fine. Charles had told Bree that she had a suspicious nature. She thought maybe it was something she learned from Pa.

  She watched as Charles went down the steps in his long, bow-legged gait, and then stepped up and into the saddle. He had a willowy way about him, and she thought she had never seen anyone step into the saddle as easily as he did.

  He sat and looked at her for a moment, then he turned his horse and was away.

  She stood on the porch, watching him ride off. She watched as he crossed the wooden bridge a quarter mile away. And she watched as he rode on, growing smaller in the distance. Then he went up and over a low, grassy hill, and was gone from sight.

  She turned and stepped back into the house, and gently closed the door behind her.

  At the edge of the pine forest that covered the nearest ridge to the west, a man stood with a spyglass fixed on the house and had been watching her every move.

  He had a floppy-brimmed dark hat that was dusty from the trail. It would have to be re-blocked to make the brim firm, but that would wait. He stood with his back to a tall pine, and he turned the spyglass to fix on the rider who was moving away across the valley.

  The man wore a Remington .44 low on his right leg, and had another tucked into the front of his belt. A bandolier of cartridges was draped across his chest.

  He worked for Harris Wellington, and Wellington had contacted him and told him it was time to do what he had been hired for.

  “You keep on riding, boy,” he said, talking to himself the way a man will sometimes do when he’s alone in the wilderness for too long. “I’ll be waitin’ for you when you get back.”

  A horse waited for him. A gray colored roan that stood fourteen and a half hands tall. Normal size for a wild one that had been caught and broken for the saddle. The man tucked the spyglass into a saddle bag, then swung up and into the saddle, and started across the grassy expanse between the edge of the pines and the McCabe house.

  34

  The man rode right up to the house. With Cole gone, and so was the mysterious man who went by the name of Sam Middleton, there were only women at the house. The man had been watching the house off and on for weeks, and had gained a fairly good idea of how many people lived here. A middle-aged woman and four younger ones. He wasn’t exactly sure if the older one was the mother of the others, but he didn’t really need to be. All he needed to know was there were five women in this house, but no men.

  He knew what
he had to do, what he was being paid to do, and he intended to do it. And what he was being paid to do was to make sure Jehosaphat Cole didn’t get another day older. He didn’t really want to hurt the women, but he would do what he had to do to earn his money.

  He reined up at the corral that was a short distance from the main house. That was when he was caught by surprise—a man walked around from the back of the house.

  That’s right. The wrangler. The man had plumb forgotten about him. Must be getting old, he thought. Getting old, or too much whiskey over the years.

  In town, the wrangler had been referred to as Fred. The man had actually stood at the bar one evening as Fred and Charles Cole and some of the men from the ranch came in for drinks.

  “Howdy,” Fred called to him and started walking over. “Somethin’ I can do for you?”

  The man drew his gun and fired. The bullet caught Fred square on, and he tumbled backward into the grass. He was confident Fred was dead, or would be soon. The man was a good shot and had placed the bullet at the center of the chest.

  Dang, he thought as he stepped down from the horse. He had wanted to get into the house without any noise. He didn’t want the women to even know he was there until he was in front of them with his pistol aimed at them. These were women of the west, and many women of the west could shoot. The young dark-haired one he had seen on the front porch romancing Cole wore a pistol, and since she was a McCabe, he figured it wasn’t for show. The idea was to get the drop on them without getting himself shot. He wouldn’t be able to spend the money he was going to earn for killing Cole if one of the women killed him first. But he had forgotten about Fred.

  Now he would have to change his plans a little.

  35

  Bree was in the kitchen when they heard the shot. She was at the table with Aunt Ginny and Jessica and they each had a cup of tea in front of them. Haley was upstairs with Jonathan. Temperence was in the parlor with a broom, and little Cora was with her, with a half-sized broom Pa had made for her. Cora loved to clean house with Temperence and Haley.

  When they heard the gunshot, Bree looked at her aunt and Jessica and then got to her feet.

  “No,” Aunt Ginny said. “Fred’s out there. He’ll handle it.”

  But Bree couldn’t just stand still and wait, if someone was in trouble. It was morning and Fred was outside working. There should be no reason for anyone to fire a pistol. And Bree knew by the sound of the gunshot that it was indeed a pistol. A .44 or a .45.

  Her own was still buckled on, so she pulled it and checked the loads real quick.

  “You all stay in here,” she said, and headed for the door.

  She was on the top step when she saw Fred lying on his back in the grass.

  “Fred!” she called out and leaped over the two remaining back steps to the grass.

  And a pistol cocked from beside her.

  A voice, coarse and gravely. “He’s dead, missy. Drop that gun, or you will be too.”

  The man holding the gun looked like he had been on the trail a long time. But he had the look of a man who done lots of killing and was willing to do so again.

  “I mean it,” he said. “Last chance. Drop that gun. I don’t like killin’ a woman, but I’ve done it before and I’m willin’ to do it again.”

  She let the gun fall to the grass.

  She said, “What do you want?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Now, keep your hands where I can see ‘em, and we’re gonna go up into the kitchen.”

  With a gun aimed at Bree’s head, Ginny, Temperance and Jessica were willing to cooperate, which meant they were soon each tied to a kitchen chair. First the man had Jessica tie Ginny, then he had Bree tie Jessica.

  “I don’t want to hurt any of you ladies,” he said. “But I will. I’ll hurt you all sorts of ways if you give me any trouble.”

  Ginny said, “What on Earth do you possibly want?”

  “At the moment, ma’am, I’ll settle for you bein’ quiet.”

  He said to Bree, “There should be one more here. Call her into this room. And the children, too.”

  Bree was so mad she could put a bullet in this man’s head and not think twice about it. She said, “You leave those children alone.”

  “I won’t hurt anyone, if you call to the girl and have her bring those children in here. And do it right now.”

  Bree looked to Aunt Ginny, who gave a subtle nod of her head. Bree called out, “Haley! Can you come here a minute? And bring the kids!”

  Haley did.

  The man had Haley tie Bree to a chair. He ordered Haley to put both children in the playpen.

  “I’ll leave you loose to tend to ‘em,” he said. “But keep ‘em quiet, or I’ll hogtie all three of you and gag you.”

  “What do you possibly want?” Bree said.

  “What I want, missy, is to wait. And that’s what we’re gonna do.”

  “Wait for what?”

  He pulled a chair away from the table and turned it so he could have a view of all of them. He lowered himself into the chair and said, “We’re gonna wait for that boy you were kissin’ on the porch to get back. Then I’m gonna put a bullet in his head.”

  36

  Harlan Carter stepped out the kitchen door with a bucket in his hand, and headed for the well. He had dug the well when he and Emily and Nina had first arrived in this valley a couple summers earlier. Hand-dug wells often didn’t have water that was good for drinking, but this water was cold and clear. Emily needed the water to make coffee, and he was a man who woke in the morning with a powerful hankering for coffee.

  He saw a rider a ways off, and knew by the rider’s height and the set of his shoulders that it was Fat Cole. Everyone was starting to call him Charles. Harlan threw a wave at him and Charles waved back.

  Harlan knew the McCabe men were off on a cattle drive. Charles and Fred were the only two men at the house, and the two line riders out in one of the line shacks were the only other men on the entire ranch.

  Harlan fetched the water, then once three cups had taken care of his coffee-hankering, he lifted the double-barrel scattergun from its perch above the door and fit two cartridges of buckshot into it.

  “Fixin’ to do some huntin’,” he said. “Kind of in the mood for some deer.”

  “That’d be good,” Emily said. She had taken some of the water she had heated in the coffee kettle and was about to start cleaning the breakfast dishes.

  “I won’t be gone long.”

  He headed out. He was tall, even more so than Charles Cole. With a black, floppy hat perched atop his head, a white shirt with suspenders, dark gray linsey-woolsey pants tucked into laced-up boots, he looked very much a farmer, which he was. Wasn’t always, though. The McCabes knew his story. He figured Vic Falcone in town had figured it out, too. You couldn’t put much past that man. But as far as everyone else around here knew, he was Carter Harding. Farmer from New England.

  There was a half mile of long, low grassy hills between the house and the nearest ridge. With his scattergun in his hand, he took long strides through the grass, heading toward the ridge. He loved the peace and solitude of the life he now led. Working the corn field, hunting in the wooded ridges. Sometimes just taking long walks on the grassy floor of the valley. He now had something he had never known before coming here—friends. And he liked seeing them occasionally, but mostly he just liked to be with his wife, or to be alone. He had a lot of weight he carried with him, the weight of his past life. A life he had left behind years ago, but that still continued to ride with him. He doubted he would ever fully find peace from it. Considering the things he had done, he figured maybe that was the way it should be.

  He was maybe a quarter mile from the house when he came across it. Something that shouldn’t be here. The trail of a rider.

  He knelt by the tracks and noted they were maybe a few hours old. The sun had been in the sky not much more than an hour, which meant a rider had come out here while it was still dark.


  He rubbed the dark whiskers that covered his chin like a bush growing wild. Ain’t much reason for a rider to be out here before first light, especially one who is keeping away from the main trail.

  Harlan Carter knew trouble. At one time, he had been the living personification of the word. He knew just about everything there was to know about living on the run, and about how to travel about and avoid being seen.

  He glanced at the direction of the tracks. They went to the ridge, at a point between here and the McCabe ranch.

  He rose to his feet and began walking back to the house.

  Emily didn’t realize he was back until he stepped into the kitchen.

  “Harlan,” she said. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  He set the scattergun on the table, then went to a small chest of drawers against one wall, pulled open the top drawer, and reached in and came out with a gunbelt. The one he had taken from an outlaw when they had been on their way to this valley, and then he had worn it while he helped their son-in-law Jack defend the town.

  Emily knew his background. He seldom talked about it because he couldn’t without tears streaming down his face, and a man as tough and strong as Harlan Carter was embarrassed by his own tears. She had never seen him wear a gun until two summers ago, and she had hoped he would get rid of it. But he never had.

  She now watched as he buckled it on and pulled the pistol and turned the cylinder one click at a time, looking at it from the backside of it. What she had learned was called checking the loads.

  “Harlan, what are you doing?”

  He told her about the tracks he had found.

  She said, “It might be nothing.”

  He nodded, and slid the gun back into the holster. “Might be. But I got good trail sense. My hackles got up when I saw it. Somethin’ ain’t right. I’m gonna ride out to the McCabe place and check on things.”

  “Harlan..,” she didn’t want him doing this. Not him. She didn’t like anything that caused him to in any way revert to the man he once was.