The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1)

by Brad Dennison

  He nodded with a smile. “I guess you’re right. There probably isn’t.”

  “So, teach him, John. I taught him to read literature. You teach him to read sign, to be a good judge of horseflesh. Teach him how to find water when there seems to be none about. Teach him to survive in this land.”

  Joshua’s education, the one he really needed or ever wanted, began the following morning, with Pa waking him up to tell him to get dressed and saddle-up. He was riding out with the men today. And he would be every day. He would be trading in his jacket and tie for levis and boots. And to Joshua’s credit, he worked nights to finish that book report, his last one, because his Pa had always taught him to finish a job he started.

  In retrospect, Ginny could see why Joshua found Ivanhoe dull. The boy was in the presence of a real-life adventure hero – his father.

  And now, Joshua was twenty, a top cowhand and well on his way to being his father’s right-hand-man. Jackson was off in medical school in Boston. And Sabrina...oh, hell, Bree - everyone called her that, why shouldn’t Ginny? After all, Ginny was Ginny, not Virginia. My, but I’m getting pompous in my old age, Ginny thought. Bree was fifteen, and turning into a lady. One with a rambunctious nature, but still a lady.

  Actually, the girl’s name was Virginia Sabrina, after the aunt who was like a mother to Lura, and after Lura’s actual mother. John and Lura had called her Little Ginny when she was an infant. John still did sometimes. But after Lura’s death and Ginny moved in to help John with the children, having two Ginny’s in the household might seem a little confusing, so they started encouraging the use of her middle name. And Sabrina eventually worked its way into Bree.

  Now both Bree and Joshua, hardly children any longer, were upstairs asleep, and Ginny was sitting on the porch in a rocker, with a now empty tea cup.

  Ginny thought Johnny McCabe must be the strongest man in spirit she had ever known. Even moreso than her father. Yet, she found herself worried about him. Despite how fulfilling he found operating this ranch to be, it was always dampened a bit because he missed Lura so much. And now, though she had passed more than sixteen years earlier, it seemed to be getting worse for him. He had mentioned tonight that, come spring, he would be riding down to California to visit her grave, and she believed he really did not know if he would be coming back.

  He had also said he hoped for an easy winter. Ginny let that roll about in her mind for a moment. She thought about the young man staying with Hunter, and how not so easy things were going to be around here, shortly.

  SEVENTEEN

  The following day, Fred Mitchum rode into town to indulge in a mug of cold beer at Hunter’s, and he announced Johnny had returned the previous afternoon. And Johnny and Josh had taken a ride into the hills and determined the riders had cleared out.

  And so, Dusty found he finally had to make a decision. He had been putting this off, because he had grown to sort of like this sleepy little town, and Hunter was a good man. But now he had to decide whether he was going to ride out to the ranch and introduce himself to the man who was his father, or simply saddle up and ride away.

  Once the stage coach passengers had eaten and the dishes cleaned up, and there would be no more cooking chores for the rest of the day, Dusty poured a cold beer and took to the chair on the boardwalk out front, and leaned his Spencer rifle against the wall. He tipped the chair back, took a sip from his mug, and let the cool wind rushing down from the ridge wash over him, bringing with it a faint scent of balsam. He was wearing the white shirt he had bought at Franklin’s, and a new pair of levis.

  He would miss this place. He had liked Arizona, but it was not like this. The Cantrell ranch house was on a grassy plateau with the wooded foothills of the Sierra Nevadas as a back drop. The elevation was very high, the air crisp and clean, and he liked it. But not like this.

  Yet, to stay would be to confront the man who was his father, and he found himself afraid. Afraid of being turned away. Afraid the emptiness he had endured as a child who belonged nowhere would come back.

  He took another sip of beer, and noticed a man approaching, crossing the muddy street. It was Franklin, a small burlap sack bundled under one arm.

  “Franklin,” Dusty said, nodding his head in greeting.

  “Dusty. Just the man I want to see.” He stepped up onto the board walk, mud that had caked to his shoes dropping in clumps. And to think Dusty had swept this walk clean just this morning. Thank you, Franklin.

  Dusty had never seen a town with a main street that wasn’t muddy. No matter how hot and dry the climate might be. Arizona, Texas, you name it. Between over-flowing water troughs, wash basins and chamber pots being emptied out side windows, horses using the very ground they walk on as an outhouse, and the occasional rain that would stir all of this to life in a foul smelling soup, the streets were generally muddy enough to slime up the soles of your boots. Give the street a full day of rain, and you would sink to your ankles in it.

  Dusty said, “There’s only one chair out here. I can fetch you another.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Franklin said. “I have to get back to the store. I can only be gone a minute.”

  Dusty nodded, waiting for whatever it was Franklin had to say. Dusty took a sip of beer.

  Franklin said, “This is a small town, Dusty. Small, but still in its infancy. We can’t afford a town marshal. We don’t even have the funds to erect a jail. In fact, we don’t have any funds at all. No town government to speak of. Just Hunter and me and a few others getting together once in a while to discuss civic matters. But well, with good citizens like you, Hunter, and the McCabes around, and Zack Johnson down the stretch, well, we all feel a little safer.”

  Down-the-stretch was the way locals referred to Zack Johnson’s end of the valley, Dusty had learned. The McCabe Gap end was, in turn, up-the-stretch.

  Dusty was not sure where Franklin was going with any of this, but he did not really care. After being on his feet all morning, in tight riding boots that pinched his toes, it felt damned good to sit and rock back, take an occasional mouthful of cold beer, and enjoy the breeze from the ridge.

  He took another gulp while Franklin continued. “Especially the way you took care of things when those mysterious riders were about. Rode right out there, at your own risk and without even being asked, to make certain they posed no danger to the town, then riding out to the McCabe Ranch to make certain Miss Ginny and Miss Bree were safe until their men folk could return.”

  Okay. Enough. “Mister Franklin, what are you getting’ at?”

  “Well, I’d like you to have this back.” He opened the burlap sack and pulled out the gunbelt and Colt Peacemaker Dusty had traded in for the Spencer rifle.

  “I can’t pay you. And I don’t want to trade back my rifle.”

  “I’m not asking for payment.”

  Dusty gave his head a single slow shake. “I can’t accept charity.”

  “It’s not charity, my boy. Think of it as payment. You took care of things the way a lawman would. And we’d all feel safer if you had the proper tools with you.”

  Dusty sighed. This bore the sound of commitment. “Look, I don’t even know if I’m going to be staying on much longer.”

  “The gun’s yours, Dusty. Take it.” He held it out to him. “Take it as payment for services rendered. If you decide to stay – and I hope you do – then we’ll work out something as far as lodging that will be a little more appealing than sleeping on a pile of hay at the livery. I’ll make certain you have all of the ammunition and any other supplies you may need. And of course, hair-cuts and baths, all free of charge. At least consider it.”

  “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s all we ask.”

  Dusty took the gunbelt, and Franklin returned across the muddy street and down the boardwalk to his store.

  Goddam. These people were starting to look at him as some sort of benefactor. An unofficial town marshal. This created a feeling of
being tied to the area. He already owed money to Hunter for all of the items he had put on credit at Franklin’s. If he left now and headed off to Oregon, he would be sending money to Hunter for months. And now, this.

  He sat, looking off at the ridge line visible from the front of the saloon. It looked almost velvety green from this distance. As he finished his beer, a thought sprung up and started to take shape. Maybe a ride in the hills was what he needed to clear his head.

  He belted on his pistol, went inside and set the empty mug on the bar, then strode to the livery and saddled his horse.

  The air was even crisper up on the ridge. A good ten degrees cooler, Dusty thought. Clean, and nourishing. The wind was stronger, causing pine boughs to sway as though the trees were waving at him. He removed his hat and slung it along his saddle horn to let his hair blow freely.

  He rode along among the upright pines, letting his horse find its way. He rode with the Spencer across the pommel. It was not that he was expecting trouble, but his saddle had no scabbard, and he did not have the money to buy one, and he wasn’t going to tack more onto the debt he already owed Hunter.

  After a time, he topped out on a rocky ledge, and below and in the distance were the wooden structures making up the little town of McCabe Gap. A thin wisp of smoke was drifting from Hunter’s stove pipe. A couple riders were moving along the structures, in Hunter’s direction. Probably going for a beer.

  He didn’t know how, but in the short time he had been here, this little scattering of buildings that was not quite a town had made a claim on his heart. It had nothing to offer him, except a job cooking and serving beer at Hunter’s and serving as the unofficial town marshal. But there would always be the specter of the truth just up the trail, in the ranch house the McCabes called home.

  He didn’t know if he could confront that truth, yet he didn’t know how he could remain so close and not do it.

  And there was Oregon, and a girl who was calling to his heart.

  In a grassy section atop the ridge, he dismounted and loosened his horse’s cinch. While the horse grazed, Dusty sat in the grass and watched some clouds drifting overhead, and an eagle gliding about in the winds.

  He had ridden into the mountains hoping to clear his head and make a decision. However, he found no answer on the ridge or in the clouds or in watching the eagle. As he rode back down to McCabe Gap, he was still caught with stomach-tightening indecision. He was afraid to confront his father and risk being met with rejection, yet if he was to simply point his horse’s nose west to Oregon, he would always wonder if he had made the right decision.

  If only there was someone here he could talk it out with. Sometimes it is easier to sort things out if you have someone to bounce options off of. But there was no one, except maybe Hunter.

  Dusty led his horse into the livery, stripped off the saddle and gave the animal a good brushing down, then headed into Hunter’s.

  Two horses were tethered at the hitching rail in front of Hunter’s. McCabe brands. Dusty stepped up onto the board walk and gazed through the window.

  Two men stood at the bar, a mug of beer in front of each. Hunter was standing behind the bar, grinning broadly, a third mug in his hand.

  Dusty recognized one of the men. About his own height and age, long straw colored hair falling from under his hat to his shoulders. Josh McCabe. The man with him was maybe forty, with a weathered face and steel gray hair as long as Josh’s. Though Dusty did not consider himself a gunfighter, he had been trained to think like one, and his eye immediately caught the man’s twin Remingtons, one holstered at each side. Must be the man himself, Johnny McCabe.

  A thought occurred to Dusty. He could just walk into the barroom and introduce himself, and get the matter over with. Then, if he was not welcome, he could just saddle up and ride on to Oregon.

  He took a couple steps toward the swinging doors, then stopped. Uncertainty filled him, tightening his stomach almost like panic.

  The hell with this. He would be more comfortable simply not knowing.

  He turned on his heel and strode to the livery. He was getting the hell out of here.

  He unbuttoned his shirt and shouldered out of it, and neatly folded it with his other clothing he had purchased from Franklin with Hunter’s credit, and rolled them in his bedroll. Then he pulled on his buckskin shirt. It was of stronger material, and could better weather the rigors of the trail.

  There was an old saddle lying in one corner of the livery. It had belonged to a drifter who had gotten himself shot at Hunter’s one Saturday night. No one had even gotten the man’s name or knew where he was from, so there the saddle simply set. The finish on the leather had worn away in places, and the leather was cracking. The man who operated the livery had told Dusty he could take it. Dusty had no need, as his own saddle was in much better condition, but now he eyed the scabbard tied to the saddle.

  It was a hand-made scabbard, cut from buckskin and sewn together with rawhide. Dusty slid his Spencer into it, and found it was a good fit. He drew a knife and cut the scabbard free, then tied it to his own saddle with the rifle’s stock aiming forward and resting under the pommel, so he would have easy access to it.

  Dusty saddled his horse, then tied the bedroll behind it. He filled both canteens at the water trough out front, then with his stetson still hanging from the saddle horn along with the canteens, he led the horse outside and stepped into the saddle.

  The sun had just dropped below the ridges to the west and gray twilight was settling upon the land, as Dusty gave the town a sweeping glance. What he figured would be his last. He would miss this little almost-town, but he needed to be riding on.

  In the twilight, he noticed the two McCabe horses were no longer in front of Hunter’s. Josh McCabe and his father must have ridden home. But he failed to notice Hunter himself standing on the boardwalk in the saloon doorway until he heard the deep baritone call out, “Goin’ somewhere?”

  Damn. Dusty had wanted to be long gone before anyone noticed he was missing. He turned his horse toward the saloon and walked it over.

  Hunter stepped fully out onto the boardwalk. “You look like you’re leaving.”

  “Yeah. It’s time I was moving on.”

  “You weren’t even going to say good-bye?”

  Dusty shrugged. “Sorry. I just ain’t very good at that sort of thing. I got business in Oregon I’d best be tending to. I’ll be sending you the money I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me any money, Dusty.”

  “I don’t accept charity.” It seemed it this was the second time today he had said this.

  “It’s not charity. Come on inside, and have one last beer, and we’ll talk about it.” Dusty hesitated, so Hunter added, “You won’t find cold beer anywhere between here and Oregon.”

  Dusty nodded. This was true. He dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching rail, where the McCabe horses had been tethered earlier.

  Dusty rested one elbow onto the bar while he waited for Hunter to return from the cellar with the beer.

  Dusty heard the heavy footfalls of Hunter’s boots on the ladder, then Hunter stepped back into the room, and set one foaming mug on the bar before Dusty.

  Hunter said,, “You look like something’s trouble you.”

  “I guess I just don’t know what to do. Afraid to do something, but afraid not to do it.”

  Hunter took a sip of beer. “If you want to talk about it, I’m willing to listen.”

  Dusty did not know where to begin. He lifted the mug and took a deep pull of brew. “Okay, let’s say you’ve never met your father.”

  “I’ve never met my father.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Hunter shrugged his massive shoulders. “So am I. I never have met my father.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  Hunter shook his head. “I take my name from an old mountain man who took me in, and raised me like his own son.”

  Dusty looked at him curiously. “You got a first name
?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Must have, at one time. I was too young to remember. And the old man, he never knew my name. A wagon train had been attacked and burned. Comanches. He came along and heard a baby crying. Found me. Any papers there might have been that would have identified me went up in flames with the wagons.

  “At first he just called me ‘boy,’ but then, he discovered as I grew that I was good in the woods, good at tracking, and I could move through the woods like an Indian. By the time I was ten, I was already big enough to shoot his eight gauge scatter gun without it knocking me over, so I often put meat on the table while he tended his traps. So, he took to calling me ‘Hunter.’ When I talk about my mother and her cooking, I’m really referring to his Indian wife. She was like a mother to me.

  “And y’know, that’s more than I’ve ever said to anyone else about my background. I like keeping things private.”

  “Well,” Dusty said, “let’s say only just a little while ago you found out who your father was. Would you go to meet him, and maybe be faced with him not wanting you in his life, or maybe even worse, not believing you were his at all? Or do you just ride on and never know?”

  “And you rode all the way from Arizona to meet your father?”

  “By way of Nevada. Pretty foolish, huh?”

  “Dusty, your father would want to meet you. He wouldn’t want you to just ride away.”

  “But how do you know for certain? I don’t know if I could take being turned away.”

  “He would never turn you away.”

  It struck Dusty that Hunter wasn’t speaking like he was guessing. He was saying it like he knew. Dusty said, “But how can you know for sure?”

  “Look, Dusty, I’ve known your father a long time. He would never turn away a child of his. I know he never knew about you, because if he had, he would have gone looking for you. He would have wanted you in his life.”