THE LONG TRAIL
Brad Dennison
Author of TREMAIN
Published by Pine Bookshelf
Buford, Georgia
The Long Trail is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2013 by Bradley A. Dennison
All Rights Reserved
Editor: Kay Jordan
Cover Design: Donna Dennison
Cover art is from
SKETCH OF A COWBOY AT WORK
By Thomas Eakins
FORWARD
One problem we Indie writers suffer from is we often don’t have access to good copy editors, and I have always been plagued with typos. As such, earlier versions of this novel were fraught with them. However, I am blessed to have found Kay Jordan, editor extraordinaire. Or she found me. The novel on your screen is a revised version of the original, and the first one to have an editor’s touch.
While this is not a novel of history but of characters living in a historical time, I did make an effort to get the historical references right. This involved a fair amount of research. I referred often to such books as Log of a Cowboy, by Andy Adams, The Trampling Herd, by Paul Wellman, The History of the Colt Revolver by Charles T. Haven and Frank A. Belden, Winchester: The Gun That Won the West, by Harold F. Williamson, and Once They Moved Like the Wind, by David Roberts. It also meant many hours of conversation with Sandy Sanborn, historian extraodinaire and longtime friend. Anything wrong is the fault of me, not of these authors or Mr. Sanborn.
I highly value reader feedback. I can be reached by email at [email protected]. If you like THE LONG TRAIL, please let me know. I respond personally to every email. I love to discuss character motivation and western authors and the Old West in general. I can also keep you advised of future novels.
Brad Dennison
Buford, Georgia
May, 2013
PART ONE
DUSTY
ONE
His name was Dusty. Simply that. The only name he had ever known. He was twenty years old – still a boy, by the standards of some - but he had been doing the work of a man since he was twelve. Swinging an ax, working a shovel, shoeing horses. He was not overly tall, but he filled out his shirt with muscle.
He rode along, keeping his horse to a light canter, his horse’s hooves kicking up a cloud of dust that trailed away behind him. The countryside was flat, stretching away to a line of low ridges to his left. To his right, the land simply faded into a distance hazy with heat. Short, brown grass grew, sometimes so sparsely that six inches of gravel was visible between each strand. Such was Nevada in the late spring.
A tattered stetson was pulled down over his head to keep the Nevada sun from frying his brains, and shoulder-length hair caught the wind and trailed out behind him. He wore a buckskin shirt he had made himself, and the legs of his tattered levis were tucked into worn and scratched up riding boots.
A Colt .44 was holstered low at his right side, and tied down for a quick draw. A second one was tucked into the front of his gunbelt. They were each of the older cap-and-ball percussion design, not even in production anymore. Soon spare parts would be difficult to find. They had long been replaced on the market by the newer Colt Peacemaker, which was out of his price range. But his pistols were functional, well balanced, and with them he was able to shoot fast and straight. They had been given to him by the man who had raised him, along with the knowledge of how to use them.
Dusty’s horse was the color of straw, and had been a gift from a man he had worked for in Arizona, a man named Cantrell.
“I think you’re going on a fool’s quest,” the man had said. “But you’re a good man, and I can’t let you leave without a good horse to get you there safely, and hopefully bring you back. And don’t forget, your job will be waiting for you.”
Mister Cantrell had let him have the pick of the remuda, and Dusty chose the gelding he was now riding. Dusty had ridden this animal many times, and thought it had sand. A cutting horse, actually. Not what you would normally want for a cross-country ride, but the horse could run fast and long.
Even now, the gelding moved along with spirit, its hooves tapping out a rhythm along the hard packed Nevada dirt, its mane waving in the hot wind.
A bedroll was tied to the back of Dusty’s saddle, and packed in it was some ammunition, a skillet, a spoon, and a dented coffee pot. Draped over the pommel were two canteens. He owned nothing more in the world.
Dusty had left a small mining town the day before, and the bartender there had told him somewhere ahead would be a way station. Dusty would remain there just long enough to fill the two canteens and maybe grab a plate of beans, and rest his horse a little. Then, he would continue on, covering as much ground as possible before sunset.
If the bartender was correct with his directions, sometime the following day Dusty would reach the town he now sought. And maybe-just-maybe, his long ride would come to an end, and he could return to his life in Arizona.
Dusty hoped the old barkeep was right about the way station, and gave a quick sigh of frustration at his own negligence to ask for more reliable information. One of his two canteens was already empty, the other only half-full. He had put fifteen miles of desert behind him since leaving that mining town, and if he did not find a stream or a well soon, he would be in serious trouble; he did not have enough water to make it back.
As he rode, he caught sight of a shape up ahead and off to one side, dancing in the haze. He was not about to get his hopes up. Could be anything, he knew. A large rock. Even just a trick the sunlight was playing on his eyes.
Suddenly, his horse began increasing its pace, like a thirsty horse will do when it smells water. Whatever it was ahead, apparently water was near, or at least the horse thought so. Dusty gave the horse its head, and held on for the ride.
As they drew closer, the shape began to divide into two shapes, a house and a barn, he realized, shimmering in a line of heat waves rising from the earth. The walls of each structure were made of wood that had been bleached by the sun; any paint or white-wash was long since baked away.
The way station. That old barkeep had been right.
An iron pump stood outside the house, and in a corral behind the barn were eight horses, larger than what you normally strapped a saddle onto. Used for pulling a wagon, which Dusty assumed was probably a stagecoach.
This place was not much to look at. But at the moment, he did not care. His eyes fixed on the water pump, and the water trough it was mounted onto.
Dusty reined up at the trough, giving the reins an extra hard tug to hold his horse in check. His horse danced a bit in protest at being so close to water but denied its much-needed drink, but Dusty held his ground. He was not about to help himself to water without permission from whoever was in the house. Common courtesy aside, such a thing could get you shot.
“Hello, the house!” he called out.
He stepped from the saddle while he waited for an answer.
The horse shifted one hoof impatiently, eyeing the water trough. Dusty’s own throat was raw with thirst. There was no answer from the house.
He decided not to make his horse wait any longer. He let go of the reins, and the buckskin pushed its muzzle into the water.
Dusty decided he could wait no longer, either. A metal dipper rested on the edge of the trough. He grasped it, then jacked the iron handle of the pump until water came gushing out, and filled the dipper. He raised the dipper to his mouth and drained it.
The water was not
cold, and tasted a little brackish, as the well was probably not very deep. But hell, it was wet. That was all that really mattered, after fifteen miles of Nevada desert. He refilled the dipper.
“Howdy,” came a voice from the shack.
Dusty turned his gaze in that direction to see a man standing in the doorway. He was taller than Dusty, and almost skeletal thin. His shirt and trousers were tattered and baggy. His jaw was covered with short, stubbly hair. At his right side a revolver rode low. Dusty knew there was only one reason to wear a gun like that - to be within easy reach. A little unusual for a man operating a way station. Most of those Dusty had seen were either wrangler or farmer types. Not that a man who was good with a gun couldn’t operate a way station, but he struck Dusty as looking a little out of place. But Dusty was too thirsty for questions to fully form in his head.
“Sorry to be helping myself,” Dusty said, “but I’ve been on the trail a long time, and I’m mighty dry.”
“Go ahead. The water’s free for the takin’.”
Dusty tipped the dipper and drained it again. He then took the reins of his horse and pulled its muzzle from the water. It was not good to let a thirsty, tired horse have too much water all at once.
“If you got some oats, my horse could sure use some,” Dusty said. “I don’t have any money, but I could do some work in exchange.”
The man shook his head. “Help yourself to the oats. Then come on inside. The woman’s got supper on the stove, and you’re more than welcome to some.”
“Much obliged.”
Dusty led his horse into the barn, and a stall. He loosened the cinch, then slipped off the bridle, and pulled a feed bag over its head.
He left his hat hanging from the saddle horn by the chin strap. He was not one to live with a hat forever on his head like it had grown there, like some cowhands he had known. He liked the feeling of wind in his hair, and the sun on his face.
He stopped at the iron pump for one more dipper of water. Now that he was not as thirsty, he had to admit the water was not very good at all. A strong metallic aftertaste. Not at all like the cold, sweet water from the Cantrell well. He found himself looking forward to returning, moreso than ever, once he was finished here in Nevada. He set the dipper down and continued on to the house.
The door was opened by the thin man, who smiled, revealing a row of blackened teeth. “Come on in, stranger.”
Dusty stepped in, now registering the details he had overlooked earlier. This man had gunfighter stamped on him as surely as if it had been done with a hot iron. Dusty doubted he had ever worked as a hostler. Something about the man’s manner, his stooped shoulders, a slight shuffle to his gait, a smile that was too forced with nothing behind it, told him this man probably did little work, except for maybe back-shooting and cattle rustling.
Seated at the table was another man, shorter than the first and chunkier. His shirt was also tattered, and stained from sweat and an overall lack of washing. Before him on the table was a plate of beans, and he was eagerly diving into them, making slurping sounds that reminded Dusty of a hog devouring slop.
A woman stirred a pile of beans in a skillet, her face flushed from the heat of the stove, considering the day was already hot enough to make heat waves rise from the earth. She was pretty, Dusty thought. About his age. Strands of chestnut hair had come free from a bun at the back of her head, and fell across gentle cheekbones. Pretty, but she seemed tired. Harried, maybe.
She tossed a nervous glance toward him, then directed her attention back toward the beans. Beside the skillet was a coffeepot, its contents boiling and hissing.
“Something to eat, mister?” the thin man said.
Dusty had to admit, now that his thirst was satisfied, his belly was rumbling with emptiness. “Yessir. I’m downright hungry.”
The thin man, standing behind him now, landed a hand on his shoulder. This set Dusty immediately on edge. Never let a man touch your shoulder, the man who had raised him once said. And this man had known the tricks of survival like none other. Your shoulder is too near your neck and throat, and when a man gets his hands around your throat, you are in trouble.
But the man’s voice was calm, not threatening, his words a little distorted by the grin his mouth was pulled apart in. “Grab a chair then, stranger.”
Dusty slid a chair from under the table and dropped into it. Something was definitely wrong here, he thought. The thin man and the slop-devourer seemed out of place, and the woman almost frightened. And more than that, things felt wrong.
Always trust your gut feelings - another lesson from the man who had raised him. A man’s head is of little use to him, much of the time. You can think yourself out of a right decision and headfirst into a wrong one, but your gut will never lie to you.
“Woman!” the thin man barked. “Bring this here man a plate of beans. And some coffee.”
Without a word, she grabbed a spoon and scooped some beans onto a flat dish, then fetched a napkin from the drawer.
The man at the table was eyeing Dusty. “So, where you from?”
Dusty shrugged. He had never considered himself as being from anywhere in particular. “Here...there...a little bit of everywhere, I reckon.”
The napkin slid from the woman’s hands to the floor in front of the stove, and she knelt to retrieve it.
The thin man said, “Come on, woman. Hurry up.”
The woman set the plate in front of Dusty, and the folded napkin at his side.
Dusty took a fork full of beans. They tasted like the best he had ever eaten, but when you are hungry, your taste buds become less particular.
He could hear the woman pouring a cup of coffee. He also was aware that the thin man was still standing behind him. “Excuse me. I really don’t like anyone standing behind me.”
It was as he spoke that he became aware of black markings on the napkin. Soot from the stove, forming letters. HELP.
Dusty lunged from the table to one side, as the thin man swung the grip of his pistol toward where Dusty’s head had been.
The girl, standing between the stove and table, a mug in her hand, tossed the scalding coffee into the thin man’s face.
The man let out a screech like a wild cat, clawing at his face, taking a step backward.
Dusty rolled away from him and came to a stop sitting with his back against the doorjamb, the Colt from his belt in his right hand.
The fat man was now rising from the table, pulling a pistol from a holster mounted on his hip.
Dusty gripped the trigger tightly, and with the palm of his left hand fanned the gun’s hammer and sent two rapid shots into the man’s chest. The man stumbled backward, his foot catching on the leg of a chair. He went over backward, and his head slammed into the floorboards.
The thin man, still squinting from the hot coffee he had received in the face, snapped off a shot in the direction Dusty had fired from, the bullet tearing into the door jamb not a foot from Dusty’s head.
Dusty fanned two more shots. From his angle on the floor, the bullets cut up and into the man’s chest, lifting him and slamming him backward into a wall. The man’s own gun went off again, firing into a floorboard, and he slid to the floor to lie motionless, his head propped awkwardly against the wall.
Dusty rose to his feet. Only one shot remained in his pistol, so he pushed it back into his belt, and slid his second pistol from its holster. He then checked the men to see if any life remained. There was none.
Dusty looked to the woman, who was standing by the stove. Both hands, slightly trembling, were clasped over her mouth.
“I take it they weren’t friends of yours,” Dusty said.
She shook her head.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. Then with one hand she brushed back the loose of strands of hair, smoothed her apron, and drew a deep breath, composing herself. The trembling was gone. “I’m fine. I want to thank you for what you did.”
“It was more luck than anything, but you
’re more than welcome.”
“They rode in not half an hour ago. They didn’t hurt me, at least not yet. They were so hungry they had to put food first. But I would have made them kill me before what they had in mind.”
Odd thing, Dusty thought, as he dragged the two dead men outside. On the frontier, you almost never heard of a woman being abused. Such a thing could get a man lynched before he even went to trial. In a land where men outnumbered women by as much as ten to one in some places, even the most rough-mannered cutthroats treated a woman as though she were almost sacred. Usually. But apparently not this time.
When he returned, she invited him to stay and finish his meal, and she brought over the coffee he had missed the first time.
She said, “My father and I run this place. He’s gone to town for supplies. He stays overnight when he goes, because Baker’s Crossing is so far away.”
“How far?”
“Maybe twenty miles. Why? Do you know anyone there?”
He shrugged. “It’s where I’m heading. Whether I know anyone there, we’ll see.” Dusty was never comfortable talking about himself, and he especially did not want to go into why he was going to Baker’s Crossing.
“Do you have any other family?” he asked.
She nodded. “Back east.”
As she spoke, she cranked an iron pump handle, filling a kettle so she could begin cleaning the dishes. “I have a grandmother, and a couple uncles and their families. My mother died last year, and Pa thought it best to come west and start fresh. Pa wants to homestead. Maybe go to Oregon, where there’s fresh farmland.”
“You’re a far piece from Oregon.”
“Pa thought maybe to find a job in California for a year or two, first. Maybe save up some money. We got this far, and the job of running the way station was available, so he took it. It can get dull here – there’s a lot of time on your hands between stages, but I never thought of it as dangerous until today."
The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) Page 1