Return of the Gunhawk (The McCabes Book 3)

by Brad Dennison

  “But Dan, why does it have to be you?” Verna said.

  “Because, Mother, we’re business and societal leaders in this part of the valley. Being leaders means sometimes, well, you have to lead.”

  “Dan, you could get yourself killed.”

  “Mother, it’s just something I have to do. I mean, the name McCabe carries a lot of weight.”

  Generally, when the name was spoken by people on this side of the valley it was in reference to Hiram or Matt. But she knew he was referring to another McCabe.

  She said, “This is about your uncle, isn’t it?”

  “I sat at the table with him tonight. Not a legend, but a real man. Sitting right there at the table. And you know what? When he looked me in the eye, I felt small. What would he do in a situation like this? He wouldn’t hesitate to ride out there. He wouldn’t let other men do it for him. He wouldn’t even think about staying home while others rode out to defend his herd.”

  “Dan, you’re not him.”

  “That’s the point. The name McCabe carries weight. Maybe it’s time I became a McCabe in more than name only.” He looked at Matt. “You understand, don’t you, Father?”

  Matt walked up to his son and placed his hand on his shoulder. Verna could see something in his eyes. Good God, it’s pride. He’s proud of his son. That kind of pride could get Dan killed.

  Matt said, “Yes I do, son. More than you know.”

  Dan grabbed a jacket and a stetson that was stiff with newness. He had hardly ever worn it. “I’ll be okay, Mother.”

  He gave his mother a peck on the cheek. He said to Hiram, “You coming?”

  Hiram said, “Maybe I’ll catch up with you.”

  Matt said, “Be safe, son.”

  And Dan was gone from the room.

  Verna followed Matt downstairs and back to his study. She shut the door behind herself. He was at the wet bar, pouring himself a scotch.

  “What in hell are you thinking?” she said. “He could get himself killed out there.”

  He filled the glass and turned to face her. “Sometimes a man has to do what he has to do, if he’s going to call himself a man.”

  “He’s not a man. He’s a boy.”

  “He’s a boy who’s fast turning into a man. He’s not much younger than I was when I first rode in here.”

  “That was a different time. People expected different things from a man, then.”

  He shook his head. “A man’s a man. That much hasn’t changed. In fact, I should be riding out with him.”

  She could see it in his eyes—he was actually considering it. “Matt, when was the last time you fired a gun? You’d just be in the way out there.”

  He said nothing. She knew she was still in control of the situation, even though her grip on him was becoming much less secure.

  She said, “Matt, you have to talk with him. No one has to live up to the legend of your brother. He’s a man of the past. Trying to hang onto a lifestyle that’s fast fading. Dan will only get himself killed out there. You have to talk to him.”

  “Verna...”

  “Your brother was here only a part of one day, and look at the havoc he’s caused. Your son, thinking he’s not good enough because he doesn’t match up to some larger-than-life legend. And you, standing here thinking he might be right. Don’t you love your son?”

  He looked at her with a little exasperation. “Of course I do. What kind of question is that?”

  “Then show it. Go out and talk to him. Explain that being a man doesn’t mean having to live up to the reputation of your brother. Half of those exploits they attribute to him never really happened, anyway. Explain to him that being a man doesn’t mean sitting on a horse in the night waiting to exchange gunfire with cattle rustlers. Explain to him that he’s much more valuable to this family alive, than dying for an empty cause.”

  Matt looked at her long and hard. And she watched him soften, and he dropped her gaze. He was considering what she said, and reluctantly admitting she was right.

  He finally nodded. “All right. I’ll go catch him at the stable.”

  He set the glass of scotch on his desk, and headed out the door.

  She was so glad Johnny McCabe had ridden on. If he had never been here today, then she doubted Daniel would be wanting to ride out and chase rustlers. And Matt was becoming hard enough to control, she didn’t need Johnny showing up and reminding Matt of the man he once was.

  Let Johnny ride into town, she thought with a smirk. Let him stop into Greenville for a glass of whiskey before riding on. Then she would be rid of the Johnny McCabe problem forever. Timmons had choked the life out of the little saloon whore Belle, and Wells had already secured a warrant for Johnny’s arrest.

  She went to the wet bar and poured herself a sherry. Either way, she thought, the problem of Johnny McCabe was over.

  She meandered over to the hearth, the glass of sherry in her hand. The fire was dwindling down. She thought she might call for Timmons and have him fill the wood box.

  Matt reappeared in the doorway. His eyes were wide with urgency.

  “He’s gone, Verna,” Matt said. “Dan’s gone. He had already ridden out before I could get out there.”

  She went to find Hiram. The parlor windows were all French doors that served as windows, with curtains that matched the burgundy upholstery of the parlor furniture, and opened to a long walkway that extended along the entire length of the back of the house. She found him out there, a glass of scotch in his hands. He was looking off toward the stable and the corrals. Beyond that were long grassy hills that stretched westward down into the valley. The sun had set and the valley was falling into shadows.

  “Hiram,” she said. “I talked your father into going to talk some sense into Dan, but it was too late. He’s already gone.”

  He looked at her with disbelief. “Mother...”

  “You’ve got to go find those men. Wells and Bardeen. You’ve got to tell them to call it off.”

  Wells and Bardeen were in Hiram’s proverbial pocket. They worked in town as lawmen. Wells was the town marshal, but McCabe money had been spent to get him into that spot. By night, they were working a cattle rustling operation that was funded partly by McCabe money. It wouldn’t do for the McCabe herd to be the only one in the area not hit, so tonight they were scheduled to ride in and shoot two or three McCabe cowhands. Mother had suggested they should take a few head, not a lot but enough to make it look good. Hiram was against this because each steer represented money. He decided Wells and his men weren’t to take any cattle, but he would announce publicly that they had. Some of the McCabe cowhands were being positioned to watch for the rustlers, which had been Matt’s idea. Hiram liked it, because it would make it easier for Wells and Bardeen and their men to find them and shoot them down. Except now Dan was going to be with them.

  Verna said, “Maybe if you ride out, you can intercept Wells and his men. Tell them to call it off for tonight.”

  He shook his head. “They’re already out there somewhere. I wouldn’t know where to find them. I don’t know my way around out there. And it’s getting dark.”

  “Good God,” she said. “Your brother is riding into an ambush and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

  He stared at her with dread. She stared at him likewise.

  He said, “Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe he’ll be okay.”

  “Maybe so.” She said it, but didn’t really believe it. She turned toward the darkening valley that stretched out before her. She had a very bad feeling about this.

  She made a promise to herself. If Dan was killed tonight, then Johnny wouldn’t have long to live. She had spent her life acquiring money and power, and power to the degree that she now had gave her a lot of reach. Even as far as Johnny’s his little ranch off in his remote corner of the mountains.

  8

  Johnny rode across the valley floor. The land undulated in a series of low rising, grassy hills at this point in the valley, and was dot
ted with short, fat oak trees. Johnny followed no trail—he seldom did. He cut directly overland, heading due east.

  The sun was hanging just above the horizon. Time to make camp, he knew. It would have been nice to make the foothills before dark, but he had lingered too long at Matt’s ranch.

  Ahead, he saw a line of trees stretching away to the north, and further along to the south. Looked to be alders and birches. Maybe a few maples. Trees have a way of lining the banks of a stream. He rode into the trees and saw he was right. A small brook ran over a rocky bed, and was making a chuckling sound.

  He swung out of the saddle and knelt by the water and scooped some of it to his mouth. It was cold. He let Thunder drink a little, then said to the horse, “I think we’ll make our camp right here.”

  He reckoned the Madden ranch was probably directly south of where he now was. Probably twenty miles or so. He thought briefly about maybe paying another visit to Lura’s grave before riding on. But there would already be snow in the passes, and he had a long way to ride between here and home.

  Maybe he could make it back in time for Christmas, he thought, though he doubted it. More than likely he could make it through the Sierra Nevadas, but by the time he reached the Rockies the snow would be too deep to get through, even with a horse like Thunder. He would have to hole up in the mountains and wait out the winter. Build a lean-to and cut firewood and hunt his supper every day. He would have to make a pair of snowshoes. He had done all of this before. He had no coat warm enough for the winter, but didn’t really need one. There was more than one trading post in Nevada where he could buy a couple of woolen blankets. With a hole cut in the middle, a woolen blanket could serve as a poncho and keep you respectably warm.

  He doubted he would see his home in Montana before April. He knew the boys could handle things, but he was finding himself missing the family. Maybe seeing what Matt’s life had become and what his son Hiram was like was giving Johnny extra appreciation for what he himself had, and he found himself yearning to be home again.

  Well, he thought, at least he had left Matt’s ranch behind him. The more miles between him and that place, the better. It occurred to him that he might never see his brother again, and that filled him with a little pang of sadness. He hadn’t seen Matt in years and had found himself missing him, but even though he had seen him, Johnny found he was still missing him. The Matt he missed was the one from years before. The one who had been his older brother when they were growing up. The one who had gone west with him and Joe, searching for the killer of their father. The Matt Johnny remembered didn’t seem to exist anymore, except for a quick flash Johnny had seen at dinner when they were talking about the old days. For the most part, Matt had become a stranger.

  Johnny cleared away some dried leaves and twigs to make room for a camp. He then stripped the saddle and gear from Thunder, and began gathering up some firewood.

  It got dark, and one hour blended into another. Matt paced in front of his desk. He poured a scotch and sat by the fire. He got up and paced some more, then looked at the ship’s clock standing on the mantel.

  He made his way to the kitchen and had the cook fix him a sandwich. He went upstairs and found Verna in her bedroom, sitting in her rocker by the fire. The ever dutiful Timmons was standing by her side. Matt talked with them for a few minutes and then wandered back downstairs.

  He returned to his office and found Hiram there. Hiram had poured a scotch and was pacing, also. The clock on the mantel read 9:28.

  Hiram said, “Father. I thought you had gone to bed.”

  On a ranch, you often went to bed early because the day began before sunrise.

  Matt said, “I thought I’d wait up a bit.”

  “I can wait up for Dan. You should get your sleep.”

  Matt shook his head. “All I would do is lie there awake, staring at the ceiling. Might as well be down here.”

  He went to the wet bar and grabbed a glass.

  Johnny sat by the fire. Thunder was picketed a little ways back, but well within the circle of firelight. Johnny had a tin cup filled with trail coffee in one hand. His left hand, so his right would be free should he need to grab his pistol. His gunbelt was still buckled on. His saddle was on the ground and his bedroll spread out, and his Spencer was lying on the ground within reach.

  Johnny had eaten a supper of canned beans. He now sat, thinking.

  He didn’t stare directly into the fire. When you stare into flames and then look away, it takes your eyes a few moments to adjust. In a life-or-death situation, it could make the difference. So he looked beyond the fire, to the darkness.

  Something was pulling at him. Something about the day that had not seemed quite right. Something, he realized, about Hiram.

  Johnny thought about their meeting. Shaking his hand. Sitting at the table with him and the others. And Timmons never far from Verna’s side. Bringing out a bottle of wine. Always on hand should anyone need anything, but never positioning himself far from her.

  Hiram, with his strong jaw and the cleft in his chin. A nose that was more like Verna’s than Matt’s. Eyes that were a dark brown, like Verna’s. Eyes that never smiled, even when the rest of his face did.

  Johnny thought about Timmons, who was a little taller than Matt. As a young boy, Timmons had been skinny and awkward, and had been so fixated on Verna. Puppy love, Matt had called it. And now he was a man, stepping through the door of middle age. His shoulders had filled out and the clumsiness of youth was gone. His hair was now white. But even though a lot of years had passed, he was still attached to Verna.

  Funny thing, Johnny didn’t think he had ever heard the man’s first name. He was referred to as Timmons by Verna and the others. Years ago, when Johnny and his brothers had first ridden onto the McCarty ranch, when someone used the name Timmons they meant his father, Moses. The boy was just referred to as Timmons’ son, or Timmons’ boy.

  Timmons’ father was about Matt’s height, which had made him a little taller than Johnny, but was filled out with hard, bulky muscle. Johnny had seen him actually bend a horseshoe with his bare hands. But the man was not fierce. He was quick with a smile and loaded with humor. Johnny remembered the man’s toothy smile and his cleft chin.

  That was when it occurred to him. Matt had no cleft chin. Their father had been square-jawed, like Johnny, but there were no cleft chins in the family.

  Hiram had a seriously square jaw, and a cleft.

  Johnny was not one to think in terms of a family’s dirty laundry. And yet, he found himself wondering. Was Timmons really the father of Hiram? If so, was Matt really this oblivious to the goings-on under his own roof? Johnny found he didn’t want to know. In the morning, he intended to ride on and not look back.

  Johnny finished his coffee and decided to climb into his bedroll. He wanted to get an early start in the morning.

  It was nearly midnight and Matt was alone in his office. Hiram had gone upstairs to check on his mother. Matt paced about, a glass of scotch in his hand. His pacing brought him to the hearth, and he leaned one hand against the mantel.

  When he had been young, riding through wild country with Johnny and Joe, he had felt strong. Like nothing could hurt him. But now with his youngest son out there somewhere in the night, a gun in his hand and facing off against cattle rustlers, Matt felt weak. Tired. Old and helpless. There was one swallow of scotch remaining in his glass, so he downed it and then set the glass on the mantel.

  How had he let himself become the man he now was? One step at a time, he supposed.

  The doors to his office opened and Verna stepped in, followed by Hiram.

  “You should be in bed,” Matt said. “Hiram and I can wait up.”

  She said, “Nonsense. I’m not going to sleep until Dan is home and safe under this roof.”

  Hiram escorted her to a chair by the fire. She descended into the chair, and struck Matt as looking old and feeble.

  Hiram said, “Would you like a sherry, mother?”

 
“No. But thank you. I think a cup of tea might be nice, though.”

  Timmons now stood in the office doorway.

  Hiram said, “Timmons, could you get Mrs. McCabe a cup of tea?”

  Timmons gave a silent nod and stepped out.

  Matt was about to say something. To tell Verna she was wrong, that he should be out there with Dan. It was true, he might be a little out of practice with a gun, but he knew what it was like to be in a gunfight. He had been shot at, and had shot a man before. He was about to say all of this, but didn’t because there was a sudden drumming of hoof beats from out behind the house. A number of horses, and they were moving fast.

  The windows in his office were all the size of doors, and the ones on the back wall opened onto the long porch that ran the length of the house. Matt went to one of these windows and turned the latch and stepped out, Hiram and Verna behind him.

  “Mister McCabe!” one of the men called out. Matt knew the voice. It was Ben Harris, the ramrod.

  “Ben?”

  The horses pulled up just short of the porch.

  Ben said, “It’s Dan. He’s been shot!”

  Verna stood on the porch, barely breathing. Hiram took her hand.

  Ben had been riding with Dan on the horse in front of him. Two men jumped out of their saddles and hurried over to help Dan down.

  “Hiram,” Verna was saying. “Hiram, is he..?”

  Matt found that while Dan didn’t seem totally conscious, his legs were wobbly but trying to work.

  Matt slipped an arm around his son’s shoulders and said, “Let’s get him inside.”

  They got him to the sofa in his office. Dan’s hair at his right temple was soaking with blood, and his shirt was also soaked on the right side.

  “What happened?” Hiram said.

  Ben said, “We were ambushed, sir. It was like they knew were coming.”