As Josh let Rabbit negotiate his own way down a slope to the base of a ridge, a question occurred to him – how was a group of riders able to rustle this many animals and not even be noticed by the floaters? It was the job of Reno and the boys to prevent just this sort of thing. Had something happened to them? Had this group of riders – probably gunmen, though Josh had no way of knowing for certain – killed Reno, Whitey and Tarley? When you were a line rider, you tended to ride alone for the most part, each man riding in a different direction to patrol and round up strays and watch for rustlers or squatters, only to reunite with the others at the line camp at night. Picking the floaters off one-by-one would not prove difficult.
Once the ridges were behind him, Josh held onto his hat and let Rabbit stretch his legs into a mile-eating gallop, quickly narrowing the distance between himself and the line camp. Josh stood in the saddle and leaned forward, to reduce the wind resistance and make Rabbit’s job easier.
As he rode, he found himself filled alternately with feelings of urgency and dread. Dread that he might find Reno and the boys dead.
After a few miles, he reined up and let Rabbit blow. The horse was now greatly lathered at the shoulders and neck. Josh knew Rabbit still wanted to run, and he thought the horse had enough sense to ease off on his own before he ran himself to death, but it was imperative Rabbit have enough wind left to get Josh to the line camp.
After a few moments, Rabbit was pounding his hooves, dancing a bit to one side and snapping his head back and forth. He wanted to run.
“Damn, but you’re a glutton for punishment,” Josh muttered, then he let Rabbit have his head again, and they were off.
Two miles later, Josh topped a low rise, and beyond the base of the hill was a stream, and a couple hundred yards further on, the line camp.
Pa and Zack had built the cabin by cleaning away part of a low hill with shovels, and building a sort of dug-out that had three walls made of pine logs. The exposed earth of the hillside served as the back wall. The roof was made of sod, and grass grew on it. A stove protruded through a hole in one wall.
A stable, also made of pine logs, stood nearby, and horses milled about within the corral.
Josh dismounted far enough away to be beyond rifle range, ground-hitched Rabbit, then started down the hill afoot, his pistol drawn.
Chances were that none of the men stealing cattle would be at the cabin, but Josh did not want to take chances. He ran in a zig-zagging pattern, so anyone trying to draw a bead on him with a rifle from a cabin window would not have a steady target.
He stopped behind a short pine, waited a moment, then sprinted toward an outcropping of bedrock, diving behind its cover, his hat flying away behind him. There was no gunfire from the cabin.
He spotted a juniper atop a small hump of earth only ten yards from the corral. He burst from the cover of the rock, again weaving as he ran, bracing himself for gunfire at any moment. He dove, and came to a rolling stop behind the hump of earth. Still no gunfire.
He ran to the corral fence, and he glanced at the horses. All bearing the brand of the Circle M. It seemed to him if raiders had killed Reno and the boys, they would have taken the horses.
Josh now sprinted toward the cabin, covering the remaining distance in a few seconds, and came to a sliding stop before the door. He cocked his revolver, raised one foot and drove the door open. He burst in, ready to shoot at any gun barrels that might be aimed at him.
He found the cabin deserted. Three of the six bunks showed signs of having been slept in. Dishes crusty with dried food were stacked on an open shelf, and a coffee pot stood on the stove. On a table was an empty whiskey bottle.
Josh touched the side of the stove and found it warm. Men had been here not long ago. There was no sign that a fight had taken place. A couple Winchesters rested against a bunk, which meant the men were not expecting trouble.
Josh’s eyes went again to the bottle on the table. He then noticed two others rolling under one of the bunks, and began to realize the cattle were being taken from this range with no opposition.
Apparently Reno was back to his old ways.
Josh eased the hammer of his revolver back into its neutral position, and slid the gun back into his holster. Then, he strode from the cabin, anger rising within him, enough that he could not manage even a chuckle at how foolish he must have looked, diving from one source of cover to the next. He snatched his hat from where it had tumbled to the grass.
He led Rabbit to the corral. The horse was winded, and needed rest. Within minutes, a fresh mount was saddled. Josh had no way of knowing which direction Reno and the boys might have ridden away in, so he rode in a wide circle about the cabin, cutting for sign. He found what he had expected, a clear trail made as the men rode to and from the cabin. Some hoof prints were fresher than others, one set of tracks looking like it might have been made no earlier than this morning. Three horses, traveling east at a shambling trot.
Josh followed these tracks through a grove of tall pines, then across a flat grassy expanse, and up an incline.
He heard the sound of a pistol shot, small in the distance, brought to him on the wind. He nudged the horse’s ribs with his heels, and the animal broke into a gallop. Again, he thought a rifle would have been handy; two were at the cabin, but he had stormed away in such an angry huff he had left them both leaning against the bunks.
He heard more gunshots. They were evenly spaced, not in a random sort of staccato rhythm that might indicate a gun battle. There was one gun only, being fired slowly but repeatedly. Then there would be a pause, before the firing would begin again. It reminded Josh of the sound of target practice, the hesitations being the time needed to reload.
When he had put a half mile behind him, he topped out on a low rise, and below was a small ravine which saw plenty of water during the spring run-off. Junipers and short pines grew, and sitting with his back against one pine was Reno, tipping a bottle, his adam’s apple bobbing as he chugged its contents. Tarley was standing, aiming his pistol toward a pine at the far side of the ravine, squeezing off shots. Occasionally his aim would be true and a branch would break free and fall, or a strip of bark would fly away. The third man, Whitey, was standing idly by while Tarley emptied his pistol at the tree.
Six shots. Two tree branches and a piece of bark. Tarley then flipped open the loading gate and dropped the empties from his revolver. That Tarley considered himself a fair hand with a gun was obvious; he wore his holster low on his leg, like Josh and Pa. The difference was that Josh, like Pa, wanted his pistol within easy reach, while men like Tarley wore their gun as such simply for show. A man who knew anything about shooting a pistol would not be wasting his shots on a target as far away as that tree was.
Josh gave his horse a nudge, and started down the slope. Reno was the first to see Josh approaching.
Reno was a man of thirty, but was considered old by cowhand reckoning. The range of ages on most ranches was usually eighteen to twenty-two. Reno’s jaw was covered with short, stubbly whiskers, and his face was lined from having lived most of his life exposed to the raw elements. And Josh thought, Reno liked his whiskey and such a thing can age a man. He wore his gun high on his belt, where he could get to it if need be, but he had no pretense about speed.
“Hey, boys,” Reno called to the other two. “We have company.”
Tarley had just reloaded his pistol, and was sighting in on a branch. He and Whitey now turned as Josh reined up a few yards from Reno.
“What’s going on here?” Josh asked.
Reno smiled, squinting into the sun. “What do you think is going on here, boy? My two compadres, here, are havin a little target practice. And I’m washin down the trail dust.”
“It’s pretty obvious what you’re doing. It’s also pretty obvious you’re not doing your job. Some riders have been cutting through here, helping themselves to our herd. Now I see how they’ve been getting away with it so easy.”
Reno shrugged, looking up at J
osh, squinting a little into the sun. “What’re you gonna do about it?”
“It’s not what I’m gonna do about it. It’s what we’re gonna do about it. We’re going to grab the rifles, and go after those cows.”
Reno looked at the other two, who had ambled over. Reno said, “This here feller wants us to chase after some rustlers.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Whitey said nonchalantly, almost conversationally.
Reno returned his gaze to Josh. “No thanks, Mister Boss-man. We’re cowhands, not gunhawks. If you’re your daddy’s son, why don’t you take that big ol’ hawg-leg you’re wearin’ at your side, and go run down them rustlers yourself?”
Josh said through his teeth, “When my Pa rode out, he left me in charge, and I’m giving you an order.”
“If the boss wants an order given, he can come and give it himself. He don’t have to send no runt to do it.”
“Look, Reno..,”
“No, you look, boy!” Reno shouted, raising his fist and aiming a pointed index finger at Josh. “When Johnson done quit this outfit and started his own place, that made me top hand. Whenever the boss is gone, he always leaves his top hand in charge. And now, that’s me.”
“You think I’m too young to be giving orders to a cowhand who’s been around as long as you?” Josh’s voice was climbing to a roar as he felt anger swelling inside. “Age should have nothing to do with it. Pa left me in charge, and if you work for Pa, you ride for the brand. It’s a simple as that.”
“No it ain’t, boy. How do we know you got the sand for the job? Out here, you don’t get nothin’ just because of whose kin you are.”
Whitey put in, “You ain’t proved yourself, boy. You got the job only because you’re the boss’s son.”
“That’s right,” Reno said, leaning back against the tree. “Respect ain’t somethin’ that’s given to you. You gotta earn it.”
“Reno,” Josh said. “You’re fired.”
Reno raised the bottle to Josh as a sort of salute, and took another drink.
“Reno, I want you off this range. You’ve got just long enough to go back to the line shack and pack up your gear.”
“You’re gonna have to climb down from that horse and toss me off’n this range yourself.”
Tarley said, “You’re gonna have to toss us all off, boy.”
Tarley was in his early twenties, and wore a black handle-bar mustache under a long nose, and his front teeth had long since been knocked out in a saloon brawl. Whitey had hair the color of Josh’s, and it fell shaggily to his brow and over his ears. At his chin was a fuzzy promise of a beard.
Josh wanted sorely to step down from the saddle, yank that bottle from Reno’s grip, and drive his knuckles into the big man’s face. Josh’s temper was a mean one, and he was athletic and gifted with his fists. Pa, who was as good a scrapper as Josh had ever seen, knew a bit about boxing, and he had filled a grainbag with gravel and hung it from a rafter in the barn, and coached Josh in the art of fisticuffs. Pa had taught him how to punch intelligently, from a solid stance, turning his shoulders and hips into it, rather than simply throwing wild hay-makers and hoping they connect. Pa had also learned something about wrestling tricks from the Shoshone, and Josh was wiry enough to be quite effective with them, also.
Pa had beaten Reno, perhaps the only man to have ever done so, and Josh found himself desiring the opportunity to become the second, but he knew to accept Reno’s challenge would not be the right the to do. Pa had said many times to think things through. Don’t let you’re temper do your thinking for you, and send you charging blindly into a situation.
Josh held a tight rein on his anger as he sat in the saddle, his gaze meeting levelly with Reno’s. “No, Reno, that’s just what you’d like me to do, but it wouldn’t prove a thing. No matter which one of us whupped the other, you’re still fired. You got half an hour to get your things packed and start ridin’.”
Josh’s glance then darted to the other two. “And you two can either mount up and ride after them cows with me, or join your partner. Which is it gonna be?”
Tarley let his hand fall until it hovered just above his holstered pistol. “You gonna make us, boy?”
“Leave that gun where it is, Tarley,” Josh said.
Whitey looked nervously to Tarley. “Yeah. They say he learned how to shoot from his old man.”
“Don’t matter,” Tarley said. “You either go for your gun, or turn your horse around and go home.”
Josh stared silently at Tarley, his own hand falling to within reach of the Colt Navy resting at his side. Whitey glanced warily to Tarley, then moved back, away from the reach of any bullets that might stray.
The challenge had been made, and Josh accepted. He had shot many a can from a rail fence, and had exchanged rifle shots with raiders and renegade Indians, but this was the first time he had ever faced a man, ready to draw.
A strange calmness overtook him, and he was breathing slow and easy.
Tarley was smiling. He believed himself to be the faster gun, and that this fight was over before it could begin.
Josh watched Tarley carefully, keeping his gaze on Tarley’s eyes, not his gunhand. Always watch a man’s eyes, Pa had said. His gunhand will move too fast for you to react to, but his eyes will betray his movement a moment before he makes it.
The passage of time seemed to slow as the two faced each other. Josh’s horse lifted one hoof and set it down out of boredom. A gust of wind wobbled the brim of Josh’s hat, and the sun felt warm on his shoulders.
Then, it happened. A flicker of intent in Tarley’s eyes. This is it, Josh knew! And each man reached for his gun, Josh a second of a fraction behind Tarley.
Both pistols cleared leather, but Josh overtook Tarley and gained the lead as each brought his pistol up to fire. Josh fired first, his bullet digging into Tarley’s shoulder. Tarley’s gun went off and Josh felt the bullet’s wind as it whizzed past his cheekbone.
Tarley spun with the impact of Josh’s bullet and fell to the earth, his revolver still in his grip.
The whole thing had taken maybe two seconds.
Josh’s horse, suddenly startled, began to rear up on its hind legs, but Josh pulled tightly on the reins, and it returned to all fours.
Josh cocked his pistol, and said, “Let go of the gun, Tarley.”
Tarley was gripping his shoulder with his left hand and he let the pistol fall to the earth.
Whitey’s mouth was hanging open. “Just like his Pa.”
“Now,” Josh said, “you men get him into the saddle and into town before he bleeds to death.”
SIX
Josh knew pride in yourself was a useless thing. Dangerous, even. Aunt Ginny had told him many a time pride is nothing more than artificially inflating your sense of self-worth based on accomplishments, which is not the same as feeling self-respect because of who you were. What kind of ethics you had, or beliefs. Or philosophies. Regardless, pride was what he felt as he rode toward the valley. A man never knows how he will react to a situation until he faces it, and Josh had handled his first gunfight like a man. Like a McCabe. He had not become afraid, with a trembling voice and shaking hands, and turned to run, as he had seen some men do. He had calmly faced his opponent, and let skill prevail. And nerve.
Pa had taught him that it takes more than simply skill to win a gunfight. Growing up on the frontier, Josh had seen Pa forced into a gunfight on four separate occasions, and believed there was none faster. But Pa claimed to have faced more than one who was faster than he was. It was not speed, Pa had said, but nerve that enabled him to win. It takes skill to be able to pull a gun from a holster in less time than it takes to talk about it, without shooting your foot in the process, but it requires a steely nerve to hold the gun steady when another man is aiming a pistol at you, and to make your shot count.
Josh found he had that nerve. He had proven it to himself this day, and to Reno and to Whitey. And most of all, to Tarley, who would probably regain most of the us
e of his right arm. But he would remember.
Josh had been shooting to kill. He would be a liar to claim he had not tried – intentionally trying to wing a man only, or shooting a gun from a man’s hand, was the stuff of legends and bad dime novels. Don’t get fancy, Pa had told him. I hope you never have to use your gun against a man, but if it comes to that, don’t try any trick shooting. Shoot to kill. Because that’s what your opponent will be doing to you.
However, he was not above admitting his shot had strayed a little, landing not in Tarley’s chest as intended, but his shoulder. But Josh was glad. Even relieved. He had killed before, and had not liked the feeling. A small band of Sioux warriors had struck the ranch two years earlier, swooping down from the wooded hills to the valley floor where the house stood. Josh, the lightest in weight, was sent to the peak of the roof with a rifle, while Pa, Zack, the wrangler and a couple cowhands manned windows at each side of the house. With a Winchester in his hands, Josh had dropped two riders.
Once the fight was over, Josh went to see close-up the men he had killed. One was a boy only a year or two older than he was, lying with lifeless eyes staring skyward.
Josh felt a strong hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see the ocean blue eyes of his father, the strong jaw, the face lined like a war map from years of riding into the sun and wind.
Pa said, “It’s not a pleasant thing, even though you had to do it.”
Josh shook his head. “No, sir. It ain’t pleasant at all.”
“You became a man today. And you made me proud.”
Josh didn’t understand Tarley, who risked death simply to prove a point. Some might have felt Josh reckless for accepting the challenge, but he knew if he had backed down, he would have been as good as dead. On the frontier, courage meant everything. Survival was often a group effort, like when the Sioux warriors had attacked. A man without courage might become a detriment to those around him. A cowardly act could stay with a man his entire life. Any hopes he might have of making something of himself and holding his head high when in the presence of other men would be lost.
The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) Page 6