The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1)

by Brad Dennison

  “Them two are unusual. Some of the worst back-stabbers I’ve ever met will treat a woman like the grandest lady, and woe be to anyone who dares otherwise. Women are rare out here, and women of marrying age, even moreso.”

  She gave her name as Mahalia Anderson. From the Bible, she said. But her Pa and pretty much every one else called her Haley.

  “Folks just call me Dusty,” he said.

  “Oh? Is that short for something?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. I never knew my Ma or Pa.”

  When he was finished eating, he took a shovel from a tool shed and dug two graves behind the house, then rolled a body into each one. Before he dumped the stocky one into the ground, however, he examined the dead man’ pistol, which he had pried from his fingers before dragging him from the house.

  The gun was a Colt Peacemaker. It could be loaded with metallic cartridges, inserted through a loading gate at the rear of the cylinder. Unlike the cap and ball pistols Dusty carried, which were loaded through the front of the cylinder manually with powder and a lead ball or bullet, and primed with a percussion cap placed over a nipple behind each chamber. Reloading a cap and ball revolver was a lengthy process. Some men carried one or more extra cylinders and would simply remove the cylinder in their pistol and replace it as a method of speedier reloading. Others, like Dusty, simply carried two pistols.

  Dusty had seen a few Peacemakers – Mister Cantrell owned one - but figured it would be a lot of years before he could afford one.

  What the hell, he thought. The dead man wouldn’t be needing it anymore. He had probably stolen it, anyhow, and it would be impossible to find the gun’s rightful owner. Dusty could leave it for Haley’s father, who would probably sell it to a stage passenger, or Dusty could simply take it himself.

  He unbuckled the dead man’s gunbelt, and slid it out from under him. It was made of finely tooled leather, with twenty cartridge loops sewn into the back, each filled. The pistol was not a .45, as were most Peacemakers, but a .44-40, sized to take the same ammunition as the .44-40 Winchester. As such, if you owned both weapons, you could fill your cartridge belt with ammunition that could be used in either gun.

  He unbuckled his own scratched up, worn gunbelt and dropped it along with his second pistol to the ground, and buckled on the dead man’s belt. He adjusted it so the pistol would ride low on his right leg, then drew the gun and slapped it back into the holster, then pulled it free again. He would need to practice until his draw with the new gun flowed smoothly. He noted the pistol’s balance, superior to those of his own.

  Dusty finished scooping earth over the two dead men, filling the graves, then returned to the shack.

  “I’d best be going,” he said. “I have a lot of miles to cover.”

  She gave a sort of half shrug. “You could always sleep in the barn. It’s getting late in the day. You won’t make many more miles before dark.”

  “Thanks. But I don’t think that would look proper.”

  “No. I don’t suppose it would.”

  There was something in her eye, in the tone of her voice. Was Dusty imagining it? Was there just a hint of disappointment? Or was it just that he wanted to see disappointment?

  That was a hard thing - trying to read a woman. It was too easy to see what you wanted in a woman’s eyes. Haley was pretty, and she had that sort of frontier strength Dusty found so attractive in a girl. And yet, she was softly feminine, not hard and mannish like some women who had been made so by too many years of hard living. And she had a soft, whispery voice, and green eyes that seemed to reach into his soul without even trying. He didn’t know if he had ever noticed the color of a woman’s eyes before.

  “Thanks for the beans and coffee. I’d best be riding on.”

  He went to the barn, tightened the cinch and removed the feed bag that had long been emptied, and led his horse out into the yard. He let it drink a bit from the trough, then tethered it to a hitching rail, and went back to the front door. Not that he really needed to. He had said his good-bye. It was just that he wanted to see her one more time. To look into those eyes. To hear that voice one more time. She answered after a quick knock.

  “I just wanted to say good-bye, and thanks again,” he said.

  “It’s I who should be thanking you,” she said.

  “Think nothing of it. Really.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll never think nothing of it. And neither will my Pa. There will always be a free supper waiting for you, once he hears about what you did. He’ll never take any money from you.”

  “Much obliged.”

  She reached suddenly with one hand to the side of his face, letting her finger gently trace the contour of his cheekbone. “Do you really have to leave?”

  He hesitated. He needed to get to Baker’s Crossing. He wanted an end to his quest. And yet...and yet..,

  She pulled her hand away suddenly, her eyes darting downward. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You must think me brazen.”

  In these times, romance was a thing of subtleties and nuances, never bold or blatant except among those of poor reputation. And yet, here they were, just the two of them. There was no one else here to cast disparaging glances, or whisper behind their backs. He was lonely, God knew. And she probably was, too.

  “I don’t think you’re brazen,” he said, and touched a hand to her face. “I think you’re pretty.”

  And he drew closer to her, and their lips met.

  “Stay,” she said.

  “I’ve been riding for weeks,” he said. “I must look like a saddle bum, and smell even worse.”

  “We have a bath tub. Enough room for two. The next stage isn’t due until morning. Pa won’t be back until some time after that.”

  He liked the sound of that. Very much. He was young, with the needs and wants that come with his age. But there was Baker’s Crossing. Business awaited him there, business he had been waiting to complete for as far back as he could remember. As attractive as he found Haley, and as appealing as he found her suggestion, he could wait no longer to be on his way. It was true he had but a few more miles he could cross before dark, but at least those would be miles he would not have to cross come morning.

  “I’ve got to be going,” he said.

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  Their gazes remained connected for a few moments more, as though by a rope did not want to break, but then he forced himself to turn, and stepped down from the porch. He pulled his horse’s rein free from the rail, and swung into the saddle.

  She had followed him onto the porch. She raised one hand in a wave, and he nodded in response, and then touched his heels to the horse’s ribs, and started away at a shambling trot.

  Two hundred yards from the way station; he stopped and turned in the saddle to look back. The porch was now deserted. A gust of wind scattered dust against the weathered building.

  He shook his head, wondering if he was a complete fool. If Haley was correct, twenty miles of dust and dry brown grass not fit for a mule lay between him and Baker’s Crossing. Suddenly, those miles seemed dreadfully long.

  With a pull of the reins, he turned his horse around and kicked it into a gallop that brought him quickly back to the hitching rail in front of the shack. He swung out of the saddle, covered the distance between the rail and the porch in a few quick strides, and rapped on the door.

  She opened it with surprise. “Dusty. Is something wrong?”

  “Nope. It’s just that, all of a sudden, the thought of that hot bath sounds awfully good, and the company even better.”

  TWO

  Dusty stretched out on the soft mattress, the covers pulled to his chest. One arm was crooked behind his head, serving as a supplement to his pillow, and the other was around Haley’s shoulders, hugging her gently as she slept. Her head resting on his chest. He liked the feeling of her long hair as it spread wildly over his ribs, and his fingers gently caressed the soft skin of her bare shoulder.

&n
bsp; He breathed easily. He was freshly bathed, for the first time since he had left Arizona, and with a beautiful woman in his arms, also for the first time since he had left Arizona. He felt all was right with the world. He was at peace with himself, or at least, as close as he ever came to it.

  Haley had been concerned he might think inviting men into her bath and then her bed was common-place for her, but he assured her he could tell by the look in her eye, by the warmth and sincerity of her touch, this such was not the case. Some women give themselves out of a need to somehow compensate for insecurity, forever seeking the touch of a man to convince themselves they are worthy of being loved. Yet the convincing never seems to last long, and they find themselves seeking it again and again. Other women seem to have a stronger emotional foundation, and it is these who give themselves only because they truly care about a man. Haley was of the second group.

  Yet, despite this contentment which seemed to originate at the center of his being and radiate outward, he found he could not sleep. Despite the beauty and passion of the woman whose bed he was sharing, he found his thoughts returning to his reason for being in Nevada in the first place. His business in Baker’s Crossing. His business that, once completed, would find him returning to Arizona, and hopefully his old job at the Cantrell Ranch. Though he had to admit, at the moment, he was not so eager to leave Nevada.

  Baker’s Crossing. What had the barkeep in that dirty, little mining town said about it? Not much. Haley, as they had talked before she drifted off to sleep, had said it was a small cattle town that served surrounding ranches, all of which managed to avoid bankruptcy because longhorns could survive on the dry, brown grass growing here in the southwest. Though, Dusty had to admit the grass growing about him was some of the worst he had ever seen, and found it difficult to imagine even a longhorn could graze here. Most of the ranches in Nevada were further west, closer to the mountains, north of that mining town. The Tahoe area. Dusty figured the grass must be a little better there, probably because of the spring run-off. But he did not know from personal experience. He had never been to Nevada before, and from what he had seen so far, aside from Haley, there was wasn’t a whole lot to make a man want to stay here.

  He had left the Cantrell Ranch about three weeks ago, to find a piece of his past. To learn where he had come from. He had left for Nevada in search of a woman he had never met before. His mother.

  Dusty had been raised by a man named Sam Patterson. An outlaw. The leader of a band of former Confederate guerrilla raiders who used military tactics to strike banks or trains. Sometimes they raided a farm or ranch for horses or supplies.

  Dusty had never talked about any of this with anyone, even Mister Cantrell. Though he thought the old man knew there was more to Dusty’s past than he let on, because of the way Dusty wore his guns.

  Dusty had never been an outlaw. Patterson had never allowed him to have a part in his gang’s criminal activities. He wanted Dusty to have a clear name, a clear conscience. But Dusty knew there was such a thing as guilt by association. He believed if the truth about his past became known, he would not be able to find an honest job, and might be forced to resort to Patterson’s lifestyle simply to survive. And there would be no way in hell a girl like Haley would want to be with him.

  He eventually fell off to sleep, but found himself awake as the gray light of early dawn brought a ghostly glow to Haley’s bedroom. They had both rolled over in their sleep, so that she was curled in a ball, and he was curled behind her, conforming to her position, his arm draped over her shoulder, almost protectively.

  He slid out of bed, as easily as he could manage so as not to awaken her. He pulled on his jeans, slung his new gunbelt over his shoulder – Dusty never wanted to be far from his gun, something he had gained from growing up on the run with the Patterson gang, and he padded out into the kitchen in his bare feet to make coffee.

  Once the coffee was ready, he poured himself a cup and stepped out onto the porch to greet the morning. His gunbelt was now buckled about his hips, and his new pistol was riding low.

  The barnyard was deserted. To the east, the sky was alive with crimson and orange. The breeze was still cool. He relished its touch, because by the time he rode out, it would be oven-like. He would be soaking with sweat and covered with dust, and that wonderful feeling of being freshly bathed would seem like a distant memory.

  Dusty heard the hinges of the door squeak gently as it was opened behind him, and Haley stepped out in her bare feet. A blanket was wrapped about her shoulders, and pulled together in front to form a makeshift robe, which she held together with one hand.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  She gently placed a kiss on one shoulder blade. “You know, we have a good three hours before the morning stage arrives.”

  Dusty rode out twenty minutes before the stage was due, but once his business in Baker’s Crossing was finished, he would be back. This he promised.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  He followed the trail over a flat stretch for what he figured was three miles, then up along a gentle, sandy slope. The ridge dropped down, gradually melting into the countryside.

  It had occurred to him he would probably pass her father on the way to Baker’s Crossing. He thought maybe the idea of avoiding the man seemed preferable. At least for now. If Dusty were to tell him of the two outlaws who had been ready to victimize his daughter, once they were finished filling their stomachs, then the man would probably push his horses to their limit getting back to the way station as quickly as possible. But this was no longer necessary. The danger had passed. And Dusty did not want to do anything that would make Haley look bad. After all, her father would be able to do some figuring, based on the time of day and how far Dusty was along the trail, and determine Dusty had most likely spent the night at the way station.

  Was Dusty falling in love? He did not rightly know. He was not sure he knew what love was. But he knew he cared about Haley and what people thought about her, especially those close to her like her father.

  Dusty decided he would let Haley tell her father as much as she wanted to, in her own time and way, and then he would meet the man later. Once his visit to Baker’s Crossing was done. He turned his horse off the trail and rode for about a mile into the countryside, then turned his horse to ride in a parallel line to the trail.

  The day was turning off hot, like he had thought it might. Sweat rolled down his back and soaked his hair under his hat. His horse’s hooves kicked up little clouds of dust. As good as that bath had felt, it was like it had never happened.

  In the distance, maybe a half-mile further along between himself and the way station, he saw a cloud of dust. More than would be kicked up by a rider, but maybe enough to match four wagon wheels and a team of horses. Most likely Haley’s father. Dusty let the wagon move along for a couple of miles, then turned his horse back toward the trail, and picked it up maybe a half hour after her father had passed along.

  Dusty rode on. The trail soon covered a long flat expanse, then went up another sandy slope. After a short time, the earth ahead suddenly seemed to fall away. At the base of the decline was a scattering of buildings. Single-level structures mostly, with walls of gray, sunbeaten planks nailed upright.

  This must be Baker’s Crossing, he thought. Not too damned impressive looking.

  One building stood two floors high, with a rickety looking balcony stretching the length of the second floor. Anyone stepping on that, Dusty thought, would probably soon find themselves at ground level. Even from this distance, he could make out the big, black letters painted on a sign mounted on the balcony railing. SALOON. This building would be his destination.

  He amended that. His second destination, as his gaze drifted to the center of the town’s lone street, and the well house standing there. An iron pump was mounted on its side. His throat was dry, and he knew his horse could use the water, and his canteens were again empty.

  Dusty touched his horse’s ribs with h
is bootheels, and they started down the gravely decline. Once at the base of the decline, the horse quickened its pace, as it had the day before when it smelled water at the way station.

  Dusty reined up at the well, dismounted, and he let the horse push its muzzle into the trough.

  A tin cup rested on the edge of the trough. Dusty filled it from the iron pump, and poured the water down his throat so quickly most of it spilled down over his chin and onto the front of his shirt. Dear God, the water was cold. Wet. Refreshing, all the way down. It struck his stomach a little heavily, but he scarcely noticed.

  He had not been anticipated the water being this fresh. In dry country, what little water there was often ran close to the surface, tasting like it had back at the way station. He refilled the cup.

  After his thirst had become but a memory, and his horse had as much water as Dusty dared allow it, he led the horse across to the saloon. He gave one rein a couple turns about a hitching rail, then stepped up to the boardwalk and pushed through a pair of batwing doors. One hinge squeaked from a lack of grease.

  The room was deserted, except for a man behind a bar who was idly wiping dust from shot glasses and mugs. A dozen tables were scattered about, chairs turned upside down and mounted on them. At the far wall, a ramshackle flight of wooden stairs climbed to the second floor.

  Dusty was tired. His back ached because of all the miles he had covered in the saddle between the way station and here, and his backside felt almost blistered. Yet, anticipation was rising within him. This could be where he would meet his mother. Finally. To, maybe, get to know her, find out what she was like. Of course, there also the chance she was not here at all. Maybe the old red-faced barkeep further back on the trail was wrong. Maybe no one here had ever even heard of a Rose Callahan. Then, what would he do? Where would he go?

  Either way, he realized his journey was over. First, he would return to that little way station miles behind him on the trail, and to Haley. And then, it would be back to Arizona, where he would hit up Mister Cantrell for another job. He would then maybe start saving his money. Maybe start up a small cattle outfit of his own in a few years. Make a life for himself. And he would try to put the questions of his past to rest.