The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1)

by Brad Dennison

  “I noticed you missed two,” Bree said.

  “I’m not very good company right now,” he said, turning to face the cans as though they were an enemy gunfighter ready to draw down on him.

  “I didn’t notice any difference,” he said with a smirk.

  He gave her a sidelong glance. He didn’t really appreciate the sarcasm. He squared away against the cans.

  “When are you going to stop this nonsense?” she asked.

  “Bree, just leave me alone, all right?”

  “Do you like this? Do you really like feeling sorry for yourself because you’re not enough like Pa?”

  He let out a slow sigh, and his teeth came together tightly. “Look, don’t push it. Stay out of my head.”

  “You can never be exactly like Pa. You’re not supposed to be, any more than I can be exactly like Ma, or Aunt Ginny. We have to each be ourselves.”

  “That gunhawk who rode in here last night doesn’t seem to have much trouble being like Pa.”

  “How do you know? We haven’t even got to know him. He might look a little more like Pa, but you have a lot of Ma in you, too. Is that so bad?”

  Josh squared away against the cans again, and drew. Six shots. Four cans, and one of them had not been a direct hit. Rather than leaping off like the other three had, it spun a bit, then toppled to the grass.

  “Bree, you’re distracting me.”

  Bree was about to say, you’ll never be able to shoot like Pa, because that’s not your strength. Your strength is in livestock. Pa said to her once that he’d seen very few who have the natural way with horses that Josh does, and that he envied that.

  But before she could say it, Dusty spoke from behind them. “Not bad shootin’.”

  She looked over her shoulder to see the boy who claimed to be their brother strolling up. She didn’t see where he had come from. She knew Aunt Ginny had accepted him, and it looked like Pa was beginning to, but Bree wasn’t sure how she felt.

  “I don’t recall asking your opinion,” Josh said. “And I don’t need an audience. I wish you both would go away.”

  Dusty stopped beside Josh. “Can’t leave two standing.”

  Dusty’s pistol leaped into his hand. He held it at hip level, and with the palm of his left hand working the hammer, fanned four shots so rapidly they blended together into a single roar. Both cans leaped away from the fence.

  “Pretty fancy.” Pa said, from behind them. Bree jumped. None of the them had been aware of Pa riding up behind them until he spoke. Thunder’s hooves had landed quietly in the soft sod, and the roar of the gunfire drowned out any noise that was anything less than loud.

  Pa was sitting atop Thunder, his wide brimmed stetson in place, and his pistols buckled about his hips.

  “Fancy enough,” Dusty said, flipping open the loading gate and dropping the two empties to the grass.

  “Fancy. And fast. But fast isn’t always what you want.”

  “Oh? And what do you want?”

  Josh answered for Pa. “You want smoothness. Smoothness creates accuracy.”

  Dusty glanced at him with annoyance. “I got both cans.”

  “Yes,” Pa said. “But it cost you four shots.”

  Pa swung from the saddle and handed the rein to Bree. “That kind of accuracy can get you killed. A man with a slower draw can still drop you with one shot while you’re scattering bullets all around him.”

  “They say you’re the fastest there is. Care to prove it?”

  Pa shook his head. “I’m not the fastest there is. My brother Josiah was always faster, and Zack Johnson is no slouch. And from what I just saw, you’re much faster than I ever was. What I am is smooth and accurate.”

  Dusty didn’t know what to make of this. “I’ve heard lots of stories..,”

  “And they’re just that. Stories. Josh, set up ten cans, and I’ll demonstrate the way an old Texas Ranger shoots.”

  “Ten cans?” Dusty asked.

  Josh was smiling. He knew what was coming. He hurried to the fence and stood ten more cans along the top rail.

  Johnny McCabe’s right hand fell to his side, hovering above the Remington waiting in the holster. His fingers were relaxed but not limp, as he had taught Josh. “Say when.”

  Dusty said, “When.”

  The pistol sprang into his hand and he brought his arm to full extension – all in one smooth, continuous motion – and he began squeezing off shots. His thumb reached for the hammer after each shot, and his finger squeezed the trigger so quickly Dusty did not see how the hammer had time to even lock into place. Each can jumped away, with the roar of the previous shot still ringing in Dusty’s ears.

  When the pistol was empty, McCabe drew the left gun, and tossed both pistols across his chest. He caught the left-hand gun with his right, and the empty pistol with his left, and he continued firing with his right while he slid the empty gun into his left holster. The exchange had been so fast the roar of his final shot with his right-hand gun had barely faded when he resumed shooting.

  When the second pistol was empty, smoke rising from its muzzle and dissipating over Dusty’s head, none of the cans remained on the fence.

  Dusty’s mouth was hanging open. “That has to be the smoothest border shift I’ve ever seen.”

  “You bet it is,” Bree said.

  Pa said, “That’s the way to shoot. Smooth, not fast. Fast is great for putting on a show. But it’s smoothness and accuracy that’ll allow you to walk away from a gunfight, while your opponent is carried away feet first. I’ve had to face more than one man who’s faster than I am. A couple years ago, down in Cheyenne, I had to face a punk who wanted to say he beat Johnny McCabe in a gunfight. Thought it would make him famous, I guess. He was either too young or too stupid, or both, to realize killing a man is never a good thing. In the time it took me to pull a pistol, he drew and fanned three shots. Two into the ground by my feet, and one that whizzed by my ear. I placed one shot dead center into his chest.”

  As Johnny spoke, he removed the cylinder from each pistol, and took a loaded cylinder from a vest pocket and snapped it into place. “Cock the pistol as you draw. Make your draw, your aim and your first shot all in one motion. And make the first shot count. You’re good, Dusty, and there are few who could beat you now, but it would take only one of ‘em to put you in the ground. No matter how good you are, there’s always room for improvement.”

  McCabe took the rein from Bree. “I’m going to take Thunder to the stable and rub him down. Josh, are the line riders still here?”

  “Yeah. They’re riding back out tomorrow morning. I was thinking of going with ‘em.”

  “Go tell ‘em to hold tight. And then join me in the kitchen for a cup of coffee. We’ve got to talk.”

  Dusty and Bree watched as Josh started for the bunk house, and Pa took the rein from Bree and began leading Thunder toward the stable.

  “What do you suppose they’re going to talk about?” Dusty asked.

  “Whatever it is,” she said, “it’s between them only. Pa has always been one to keep his business private. Whatever you say to him in private, will stay in private. And whatever he says, he expects likewise.”

  “It’s a good way to be.” Dusty leaned on the fence. “Tell me something. I know how Aunt Ginny feels about me. And it ain’t no secret how Josh feels. Pa - he’s coming around, but I think he’s reserving full judgment, I guess, until after this thing with those riders is taken care of. But how do you feel?”

  “Dusty, just what do you want here?” she asked, answering a question with a question.

  “Well, I guess I just want to belong. Most of my life, I didn’t really feel like I belonged. Then, when I found out my mother’s name, I went to find my past. I didn’t really expect to find out who my father was, but when I did, I just had to go find him. And seeing what you all have here, I guess I just want to be part of it. To be a part of the family.”

  “Well, I’d say your first day hasn’t gotten off to such a
good start.”

  “No, ma’am. I’d say it hasn’t. I guess I don’t know much about belonging to a family.”

  Bree was silent a moment, collecting her thoughts. “You know, Dusty, you don’t want to push too hard. This may be hard on you, but it’s hard on all of us, too. You can’t just step into a family, announce, ‘Hi, I’m your brother,’ and expect to be welcomed in with open arms right from the start.

  “Now, Josh and me, we were born into the family, and our whole lives have been spent defining not only who we are, but where we fit into it. It may not have been fair that you weren’t born into the family like we were, but now that you’re here, you’re going to have to take the time to find your own way, and where you fit into the family. And I guess it’s our job to give you that time.”

  “So, you do believe me, then?”

  “At first, I wasn’t so sure. But the more I think about it, the more I suppose I guess I agree with Aunt Ginny that it’s obvious.”

  Dusty nodded. “All right. I’ll promise not to push too hard.”

  She gave a little grin. “And I promise to give you some time.”

  “I might also need a little help. I don’t know much about what it means to be a part of a family.”

  “I think this might be a learning experience for all of us. What we might need to do is help each other out. That’s what families are for.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Johnny McCabe stepped into the kitchen to the smell of freshly brewing coffee. Josh was by the stove.

  Josh said, “Coffee’s on. Want a cup?”

  “Always,” Johnny said.

  Josh poured two cups, set one at Pa’s customary place at the head of the table, then pulled a chair to one side and dropped into it.

  Pa sat and took a sip of coffee. “You sure got mad this morning.”

  “Yeah,” Josh said. “I owe everyone an apology for storming out like that. Aunt Ginny, especially. But I just don’t know about Dusty. I just don’t like him. And I don’t understand why Aunt Ginny accepts him so easily.”

  “Well, there are a lot of things about your aunt that I’ll never fully understand. But I’m coming to think she’s right. I think he is who he says he is.”

  “Pa,” Josh started, raising his voice, but Pa held up a hand to silence him, and continued.

  “I don’t think he can expect us all to accept him as family overnight. That wouldn’t be fair to us. But it wasn’t fair to him to be deprived of a family all of his life, either. You know, it could easily have been you born in that mining town, and him born and raised here amongst the family. You were both born about the same time.”

  “I wonder which one of us is older?”

  Johnny chuckled. As one who was born second, Johnny didn’t quite understand what it meant to be the first-born, but his older brother Matthew had told him once it was something special, a sort of extra responsibility you have when you ‘re the oldest child. Sort of like the unofficial leader of your parents’ offspring.

  “Let’s see,” Johnny said, trying to remember things he had all but forgotten over time. “If my memory serves me right, if I’m remembering the time frame right, I’d say he’s about two months younger than you. Maybe three. So, you’re still the first-born.”

  “Well, at least there’s that.”

  “It’s going to take time, Josh,” Johnny said. “This sort of thing is new to us – we don’t get a new family member every day – but it’s new to him, too. We’ve got to allow some settling-in time, for us and for him. Then, we’ll see what happens. But we’ve got more pressing problems right now.”

  He told Josh of seeing the fire the night before. “I spent most of the day riding the ridges, picking up their trail.”

  “Damn it. I should have been there with you, not storming off, having a temper tantrum.”

  Johnny shook his head. “No. At first, I did think I would have wanted you with me, but there are times when the fewer the riders, the better. I left Dusty here to take care of Aunt Ginny and Bree, and I knew you’d be back soon.

  “Anyway, I rode through the hills cutting for sign and I found it, and it surely is the same riders. I followed them to the site of last night’s camp. They had pulled out by sunrise or thereabouts, and I followed their trail, which wound its way first south, then southwest, then north, then northwest. Kind of snake-like, through the mountains.”

  “What do you think they want?”

  “I think they’re raiders, just like we’ve been speculating. And I think we should all go with that assumption until we know otherwise for sure. These men are good. Better than most. I think they knew I was there. They had left behind guards to watch their back trail, and I only knew because I was downwind from them and Thunder caught their scent before they saw or heard me.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I turned Thunder, then dismounted and led him quietly to a place maybe a quarter mile back, changed into my moccasins, and doubled back on foot. But the wind had shifted, favoring them, and I couldn’t not get too close.”

  He took a sip of coffee and continued. “I figure there were two of them, and their horses either heard me, or caught my scent, which alerted the scouts that something was out there. I waited close to an hour, playing cat-and-mouse. A couple times, one of ‘em would throw a rock into bushes, trying to get me to jump at the sound, but I wouldn’t fall for that. After a while, they mounted up and rode on.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “We prepare for an attack.”

  McCabe took another sip of coffee while Josh sat silently, letting those words settle in. He had helped defend the ranch against an attack by Sioux renegades five years earlier. He had been fifteen, perched on the roof, using the peak for cover and firing a Winchester. They had been in serious danger; the renegades had outnumbered them by three to one. But Josh had been filled with the thrill of adventure, and the thought of losing the battle had never occurred to him. The years between fifteen and twenty, however, can be big years, and Josh now saw the world more as a man than a boy, and he realized just how much he had to lose - the family had to lose - should the raiders overrun this place. And he found himself afraid.

  “There’s one more thing,” Pa said. “I believe Dusty is who he says he is. But I’d like you to keep an eye on him.”

  Josh looked at him curiously.

  “When I was out riding today, I noticed a trail made by a single rider. It came from our ranch, and the rider went all the way out to that camp last night, then returned here, but taking a different route.”

  An old trick, Josh knew. It had been taught to him by Pa, himself. Don’t use the same exact trail when coming and going, in case you’re being watched.

  “You think it might be Dusty?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I will admit, I don’t want it to be. But keep an eye on him. At least for now.”

  They heard the front door burst open, and the sharp click of hard-soled shoes moving at a running pace across the parlor floor, and Bree charged into the kitchen doorway. “Pa! Josh! Dusty says to come quick!”

  They followed her back across the parlor, past the dark and silent hearth, and to the front porch. Dusty was standing by a railing. “There,” he said, pointing with the index finger of his right hand. “Off on that ridge, about half way down.”

  Josh followed his gaze. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  Then, it reappeared. A flash of light that held steady for a few moments, then faded.

  “Light, reflecting off metal,” Pa said. “Someone in that tree you climbed, Josh, or one just like it. Using a spy glass.”

  “Using a spy glass?” Bree asked.

  “Yeah,” Josh said. “Watching us.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The McCabes had an uneasy dinner. When conversation arose, it centered on the party of riders up on the ridge. How many in number, what they could be after. Who they might actually be. Bree knew little of guerril
la raiders, so Pa told her about William Quantrill, the James brothers, Sam Patterson. He told of how, during the late War Between the States, both the Union and the Confederacy had employed raiders to strike at each other’s supply routes, burning bridges and such. Knowledge of Confederate raiders was quite common, but few knew the Union had used them, also. Wild Bill Hickok had ridden with a group called the Red Legs.

  Pa said, “Often history is written by whoever wins any given war. Had England won the Revolutionary War, then today we would be looking at George Washington and John Adams and the others as traitors, not patriots. They would have been hanged, and that would have been the end of it. Likely, history books would not even refer to it as the ‘Revolutionary War.’ It would be looked at as little more than an uprising by a faction of anti-British rebels. And we would all today be loyal British subjects.”

  Pa went on to explain that after the War Between the States, the raiders, like all other soldiers, tried to integrate themselves back into civilian life, but some were unsuccessful. Many of the soldiers went west, and the raiders who couldn’t readjust to peacetime living continued to raid, but now doing so for profit.

  “In their own way, men like Jesse James and Sam Patterson are victims of the War, as much so as the men they killed during the conflict.”

  Josh said little during dinner, but he occasionally stole a glance at Dusty, and thought about what Pa had said. The trail of a single rider leaving the ranch and then returning by a different route. Now, Josh felt he had a better understanding of his feelings of reservation toward Dusty. It wasn’t because he was jealous of any resemblance Dusty might have toward Pa, as Bree and Hunter had thought. He had known something wasn’t quite right with Dusty – his instinct told him Dusty had been holding back information from the start.