One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2)

by Brad Dennison

  He said, “I thought I heard you stirring about out here.”

  Great, Jack thought, sarcastically. But he said, “It might be a good idea for us not to let our guard down too soon. Just in case.”

  “I want to talk to you alone. I figure this might be a good time. We’ll be leaving at sun up, and you don’t get much chance to talk privately on the trail.”

  “Mister Harding, I know you don’t like me. But..,”

  Harding cut him off. “It’s not that I don’t like you. Not really. I hardly know you. What I don’t like is what you represent.”

  “And what do I represent?”

  “You’re a gunfighter.”

  Jack chuckled. “Is that what I am? Until just recently, I was a medical student. You have been listening to stories about my father’s exploits. I assure you, they’re exaggerations. Some are complete falsehoods.”

  Harding held his hands out to the warmth of the stove. The night had turned off chilly. It was the second week of June and at this altitude, even though the sun could warm the day, the nights could cool off considerably.

  “I’ve heard the stories,” Harding said. “But I don’t take them seriously. I know enough about such things to know what part of a story is likely being stretched. Like shooting five Indians who were charging at him with five shots.”

  “No, that one’s actually true.”

  “But it’s not those stories that concern me. Not really.”

  Jack was openly perplexed. “Then I guess you have me confused.”

  “Look at the way you wear that gun. You might be lately of Harvard, but you wear that gun like it’s a part of you. And,” he glanced to where Jack had left his Winchester, leaning against a wall not far from his blankets, “Your rifle is nearby so you can grab it if need be.”

  “Just being cautious.”

  He shook his head. “It’s more than that. Even if those riders weren’t out there. Even if they had never threatened us, or kidnapped Nina, your rifle would still be within reach. Guns are a part of you. Death walks with you, and you with it. It’ll always be a part of you.

  “This is why I didn’t want you riding along with us. Many glorify the gunfighter, as though he is somehow a hero. And with two young women with us, I didn’t want either of them, especially my daughter, becoming infatuated with a man she would see as a romantic hero.

  “Death walks with you, McCabe. I’ve known your kind before. Death walks with you and sooner or later it’ll either come to you, or you’ll bring it to those around you. I don’t want my daughter caught up in all that.”

  Jack was about to ask how Harding knew anything about gunfighters. The man spoke as though he was more than simply speculating.

  But before Jack could speak, a dog outside suddenly barked.

  Jack and Harding both grew silent and listened. The dog barked again. Malden had said he kept the dog and let it roam outside at night for just this purpose. He said if something was out there that shouldn’t be, the dog would let him know.

  Malden climbed down from the loft over the kitchen which he used as a bedroom. He had a double-barrel shotgun in one hand. Jack thought it looked bigger than a twelve gauge. Possibly a ten gauge. It would cut a man in half at close range.

  “Something’s out there,” Malden said. “Maybe them outlaws that gave you trouble.”

  Jack then heard it – the sound of hooves, muffled a bit by the sod. Sounded like two horses.

  He drew his pistol. Harding was wearing one of the gunbelts Jack had taken from the outlaws. He drew the pistol and gave the cylinder a quick spin, checking the loads. Jack thought he looked a lot more familiar with a revolver than he would have expected with a farmer from back east.

  The only light in the room was provided by a lamp standing on the table. Malden blew it out. Jack pulled the sling from his left arm and tossed it away, and then turned the door handle and let the door hang ajar.

  A man called from outside. “Hello, the house!”

  Jack smiled. He knew the voice. He holstered his pistol and called out, “Come on in!”

  “You know these men?” Harding said.

  “Like it or not, Mister Harding, you’re about to meet the legendary Johnny McCabe, himself.”

  20

  The sound of a man hailing the cabin from outside and Jack calling back to him awakened the household. Brewster and Ford came running from their bedrooms. Ford had a shotgun in his hands, and Brewster was gripping his revolver. They were followed by the women. Nina, her long hair tied into braids, was tying a robe shut over her nightgown. Her mother and Mildred Brewster were doing likewise. Age Brewster was in his pants with suspenders up and over his union suit. He and Ford’s son were staring wide-eyed, not knowing if gunplay was going to erupt.

  “Carter,” Mrs. Harding said to her husband. “What’s happening?”

  “Riders, approaching the house. But I think it’s all right.”

  Harding slid his revolver back into its holster. Pa had taught Jack to be aware of the little details. Sometimes they tell more of a story than you would think. Jack noticed how Harding didn’t look downward to find his holster, the way Ford and Brewster did when they were holstering their guns. He just slid it back into its resting place without even looking at it. This Vermont farmer seemed awfully comfortable with a gun.

  Jack swung the door wide and stepped back, and in came a man maybe an inch taller than he was. A brown sombrero with a wide brim was pulled down over his temples, and long graying hair fell from behind his head to his shoulders. His jaw as firm and square, and his face lined from years of riding into the sun and wind.

  The legs of his levis were tucked into tall, black riding boots, and he wore a deerskin jacket that fell to his belt.

  Riding low at each leg was a Remington, tied down for easy access and a quick draw.

  “Son,” the man said with a smile, and held out his hand.

  “Pa,” Jack said, also breaking into a smile. They shook hands, and then Pa pulled Jack in for a hug.

  Jack said, “It’s mighty good to see you. I have to admit, though, I’m somewhat at a loss. I didn’t expect you to be down this way.”

  “I got a letter from the marshal of Cheyenne. Jubal Kincaid. Said my help might be needed. Your brother and I rode twelve hours a day and brought spare mounts with us so we could just change the saddle and keep riding.”

  “Jubal Kincaid.” Jack shook his head with amazement. “He’s a good man.”

  “Thinks highly of you, apparently.”

  “So, Josh is with you?”

  Johnny shook his head. “Not Josh.”

  That was when he walked in, almost as if on cue. He needed no introduction. Aunt Ginny had said in her letter that the boy uncannily resembled a younger version of Pa. She was right.

  According to Aunt Ginny’s letter, he was four months younger than Josh, which made him about a full year older than Jack.

  He wore a tattered hat with a chin strap hanging to his chest. His hair was dark and fell to his shoulders. Long, like Pa wore his. Pa had done so ever since he wintered with a band of Shoshone, before he married Ma.

  The boy’s cheekbones were maybe a little more pronounced than Pa’s, but even still, the resemblance was strong. The set of his shoulders was the same, and the way he walked.

  The boy wore a buckskin shirt and levis, and riding low on his right side was a Colt Peacemaker.

  Jack extended his hand. “I’m Jack.”

  The boy, smiling broadly, shook Josh’s hand. “I’m Dusty. It’s so great to finally meet you.”

  Jack said, “I’ve been looking forward to it ever since Aunt Ginny wrote about you in a letter, last winter.”

  And yet, he asked himself, did he really? This boy was everything Jack had always wanted to be. He was so much like Pa, he even looked like him. And he did it without even trying.

  Pa clasped a hand to Jack’s shoulder, and the other to Dusty’s, and broke into a broad smile. Dusty was also smiling, and
seemed genuinely glad to be meeting his brother. Jack forced a smile in return.

  Everyone in the room was gathering around, all wanting to meet the legendary Johnny McCabe, about whom such tall tales were spun.

  All except Carter Harding, who held back.

  Jack realized Nina had very inconspicuously made her way to his side, and slipped her hand into his.

  She glanced at him, and their eyes met. In a subtle way that can only be done when you have an intimate understanding of someone, she asked with her eyes if he was all right. As a reply, he simply gave his shoulders a little shrug. He really didn’t know. She gave his hand a little squeeze.

  It was at that moment, despite the fact that he felt like an outsider in the presence of his own father and brother, that he knew he was going to marry this girl. They were going to have children. And he wasn’t going to do it as a mathematics professor at some Ivy League school. He was going to do it on his own terms.

  Jack began introducing his father and Dusty to everyone in the room. Hands were shaken. Everyone was pleased to meet the legend. Age was staring at him like he was a god descended from on high. A Greek god in buckskin and smelling of gun oil, Jack thought.

  As the introductions continued, it became Nina’s turn. She extended her hand to Johnny, who grasped it the way a gentleman should grasp a lady’s hand. But her other hand remained in Jack’s. Johnny caught this, and gave a quick smiling glance to Jack. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Harding.”

  “Please, call me Nina.”

  “Only if you’ll call me Johnny.”

  Then came the introduction Jack knew was coming, to the man across the room.

  “Pa,” Jack said, “this is Nina’s father. Carter Harding.”

  Harding made his way through the small crowd, and Pa clasped the man’s hand firmly. Harding said, “I’ve heard much about you.”

  “I assure you, most of it isn’t true. And that which is, I wish wasn’t.”

  Everyone laughed. Even Harding cracked a little smile and a snicker.

  The settlers began to excuse themselves to return to bed. Morning was going to come early and they had a lot of miles ahead of them.

  Nina gave Jack’s hand a final squeeze, and said to Pa, “It was really great to meet you, Mister McCabe. And you, Dusty.”

  “Likewise,” Johnny said.

  Jack noticed even though Pa had said to call him by his first name, she had not. He wondered what it meant. Maybe a sort of subtle gesture of not letting him get too close, as a sort of defensive stance toward Jack. Because no one in the room, not even Pa himself, understood Jack like she did, or understood that Jack felt like an outsider when in the presence of this man.

  Malden, however, did not climb back into his loft. He said, “It’s not too often I have a man of your stature here, Mister McCabe. Do you like a taste of whiskey?”

  Johnny said, “I’ve met very few who don’t.”

  Malden smiled. “I’d be honored if you and your boys would share a drink with me.”

  Malden got out a ceramic jug, and they sat at the table and began handing it back and forth.

  “So,” Johnny said, “tell us about your past two weeks on the trail.”

  Jack decided now was not the time to explain his decision not to return to school. Instead he began with the saloon fight with Cade back in Cheyenne, and then the forcible rescue of Jessica Brewster from Vic Falcone and his men. He told of Falcone hiring Two-Finger Walker, and then how they kidnapped Nina and shot Jack, and Jack rescued her from them.

  Jack told them about how he got Mrs. Brewster to clean the wound, by washing it with a couple of ounces of bourbon. Pa’s old trick, and it worked. There was no sign of infection in the wound.

  Malden said, “They’re gonna be talking about this for a long time. He’s a chip off the old block, Mister McCabe.”

  “Vic Falcone,” Dusty said, shaking his head. “Last summer we should’ve trailed him and finished him off. I had Josh with me, and Hunter and Zack Johnson.”

  Johnny said, “And now Two-Finger Walker’s with them. I haven’t thought about him in a long time.”

  Jack’s turn with the bottle. He took a pull from it. “So, Dusty. What’s your connection to Vic Falcone?”

  “Apparently Aunt Ginny didn’t cover that if her letter to you.”

  Jack shook his head.

  And so, Dusty told of how he had been raised by the outlaw Sam Patterson. Falcone had been Patterson’s right hand man during Dusty’s final years with them. And they talked of the raid Falcone and his men had made on the ranch the summer before.

  “I wish I could have been with all of you last summer,” Jack said.

  Pa handed him the jug. “I’m glad you weren’t. You being at school, using your God-given gift, is too important. The best thing many a man can ever truly give back to the world is to want the best for his children. For them to make the most of their lives. And it was bad enough having Aunt Ginny and Bree there, in danger. And Josh and Dusty in the line of fire. At least one of my children was safe.”

  “With all due respect,” Jack said, “it doesn’t make me feel any better about not being there.”

  Dusty looked at Jack and nodded. Jack thought he understood. Pa did too, apparently, because he clasped a hand to Jack’s shoulder. Pa said, “You wouldn’t be my son if you felt any different.”

  Malden invited Pa and Dusty to spend the night, and then he and Dusty went out to take care of the horses.

  “So,” Johnny said to Jack. “That man Harding doesn’t say much.”

  Jack chuckled. “He doesn’t have much use for me, that’s for sure.”

  “I think I’ve seen him before.” Pa pushed the cork back in the jug and set it on the table.

  Jack looked at his father, waiting for him to continue.

  Pa said, “And his name’s not Harding.”

  21

  Though Johnny McCabe had only a few hours of sleep, when Jack awoke he found his father already on his feet, building a fire in the kitchen stove. The eastern sky was still dark.

  Johnny said, “We’ve got an hour to go before sunrise. I’d like us to be already moving by then. Even though Falcone and his men are probably long gone by now, I still don’t want to take any chances. Especially with women and children with us.”

  Dusty had stretched out his bedroll on the floor by one wall, but Jack noticed that section of floor was now empty, and Dusty’s blankets were gone.

  He said, “Where’s Dusty?”

  “He’s already ridden out, scouting ahead. I wanted him to be already out there by sunrise.”

  Malden stepped from his bedroom, and once the stove was heated, he brewed up a pot of coffee and began bringing some hotcakes to life. Pa went out to saddle his horse and Jack’s, and when he returned, the settlers were stirring to life.

  “Mister McCabe,” Mildred Brewster said, “what kind of danger do you think we will be in?”

  “None, really, now that Dusty and I are here. With us and Jack, the three of us, those men will be less likely to want to attack. Also, from what we understand, they rode off west of here. Hopefully they’re gone”

  “Men like that are cowards,” Harding said.

  “Well, I’ve fought Two-Finger Walker, and he’s not afraid of anything. That says something about him. A normal person is afraid of something. To be afraid of nothing at all means he’s not quite right in the head. Which makes him even more of a problem.”

  Harding nodded. “A man who knows no fear has no boundaries.”

  Johnny nodded in agreement. Jack was now sitting at the table with his left arm once again in a sling, and a cup of coffee in front of him. Again he was struck by the fact that Harding spoke not out of speculation, but as one who knew.

  Mildred Brewster said, “Do you believe it is fear that creates the boundaries of civilization?”

  Jack rolled his eyes and shook his head. Here we go. You get Pa talking philosophically, and he could go on for hours. Jack sighed and
took a sip of coffee.

  Pa said, “Among the civilized, no. but among the uncivilized, it’s a way of keeping them in line. They have no understanding of civic responsibility. Fear of prison, even fear of hanging, is what keeps them at bay. But a man like Two-Finger Walker, who knows no fear and is about as uncivilized as you can get, won’t have any reason to acknowledge boundaries at all.”

  Please don’t ask him about religion, Jack thought. Jack had once asked Pa if he thought the Shoshones and the Baptists worshipped the same god. This led to a talk that lasted well into the evening, when really it was just a yes or no question.

  Pa had a cup of coffee in hand. His gunbelt was buckled on, as it usually was except when he was asleep. He said, “Now, as for Vic Falcone, would I call him a coward?” Pa glanced to Harding. “Maybe. He’s never been known to actually face a man in a fight. But he’s also a businessman, and I believe he has to understand that to attack us will cost him some men.”

  Brewster said, “From what you have said, he wasn’t afraid to attack your ranch head-on, last summer.”

  Jack said, “He miscalculated, and it cost him half of his men.”

  Pa said, “Not only that, his only reason for attacking us now would be revenge. He has to realize none of you is carrying large amounts of cash, and your supplies wouldn’t benefit him all that much. I can’t believe he would be willing to take the risk, especially with Two-Finger Walker along. A gunhand of that sort must be costing him some money.”

  As Pa talked with Brewster and Harding, Nina sort of inconspicuously slid into a chair at the table across from Jack. Jack gave her a smile, which she returned. Somehow, the freckles that sort of spread from one cheek to the other across her nose seemed more noticeable when she smiled.

  “Morning,” he said to her.

  “Morning.”

  “You sleep well?”

  She nodded. “You?”

  He shrugged. “As well as can be expected.”

  Pa said, “A man like Two-Finger is going to expect to be paid. Outlaw raiders don’t generally run with a large cash reserve. They tend to make a big haul somewhere, hitting a bank or robbing a payroll, then they live off that until its gone. Then they have to rob again. It’s going to be hard for Falcone to convince Two-Finger to attack these wagons when there’s no money to be gained.”