The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) by Brad Dennison (microsoft ebook reader .TXT) 📗

“Kiowa,” Dusty said with surprise that sounded so real Josh would have thought it was genuine, if he did not know better. “After all the years I rode with you and the boys, you don’t think you can trust me?”

“I never thought I could trust you. And you never rode with us. You just tagged along because Sam kept you as some sort of pet. We allowed it because he was boss. But he ain’t here to protect you no more.” Kiowa Haynes held a Winchester in his hands, the barrel aimed toward Dusty. “Now, toss down them guns, or the new boss will be seein’ you with a bullet in your head.”

Josh turned his head a couple of inches, to allow himself a glance behind him and Dusty with his peripheral vision. A man was standing a few yards behind the horses, a Winchester also in his hands.

“Turn that head anymore,” Kiowa said, “and I’ll blow it clean off your shoulders.”

Dusty reached toward the buckle of his gunbelt, and Haynes said, “with your left hand only, boy. I seen how fast you are with a gun.”

Dusty raised his right hand into the air, and unbuckled the belt with his left and let it fall to the earth. Josh did the same.

“And the saddle guns.”

Josh and Dusty slid their rifles free, and let them drop.

Kiowa instructed the man behind Josh and Dusty to go fetch their horses. With Kiowa in the lead and the other man behind them, they rode along a narrow trail that led to down and into the canyon.

At the canyon floor, Kiowa directed them through a stand of birches and into a large meadow Josh guessed to be thirty acres, in which a small herd of horses grazed. Josh counted maybe twenty. He guessed them to be the remuda. They were strong looking horses, and long-legged. You can tell a lot about a man by his horse, Pa had once said, and these horses were built for running. At the center of the meadow was the log cabin. It was made of crudely cut logs. The stone chimney rose along one wall.

A man not much older than Josh and Dusty was sitting on a bench outside the cabin. He wore a flat-brimmed sombrero that had seen a lot of wear. His face was reddened, but whether from the sun or too much whiskey, Josh couldn’t tell.

“I see you have a new man,” Dusty said, so casually it was almost conversational.

“You ain’t met Loggins,” Kiowa said. “He joined up after you rode out. He ain’t much with a six-gun, but he’s the best you’ll ever see with a rifle. Even better than Patterson was.”

“Not better than me,” Dusty said. “And definitely not better than my friend Josh, here.”

“Still cocky, are you, boy? That’s gonna get you killed sooner or later. And I’d bet on sooner.”

Josh noticed Dusty referred to him as friend. He decided to say nothing, and follow along with whatever plan Dusty was cooking up.

The man called Loggins said, “Who are these two?”

“Found ‘em up on the rim of the canyon,” Haynes said. “The runt here,” he indicated Dusty with a nod of his head, “used to ride along with Patterson. I don’t know who the other one is. As soon as Falcone gives the word, I’ll turn ‘em both into wolf bait.”

Haynes dismounted and rapped on the cabin door. “Hey, boss. It’s me. Found me a couple riders up at the canyon rim. Brought ‘em down.”

A man called from inside. “They law?”

Dusty immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Falcone.

Haynes glanced at Josh and Dusty. “Them two? Nah.”

“Then shoot them both.”

“You know one of ‘em. That kid who used to tag along with Patterson.”

There was a hesitation. Then, “Bring ‘em on in.”

“Get down from the horses, boys,” Haynes said to them. To the other man who had been with him on the canyon rim, he said, “Take care of the horses.”

With Haynes in the lead and Loggins behind them with a pistol in his hand, Dusty and Josh stepped into the cabin. A fireplace built of stones and held together with mud plaster decorated one wall. There were two doorways flanking the fireplace, and each was blocked off with a blanket hanging from nails driven into a timber overhead. Bedrooms, Dusty supposed. A table was positioned at the center of the main room.

A dark haired woman with hollow cheeks and deep crevices about her eyes sat at the table. She wore a white petticoat and fish-net stockings, and in one hand was a glass. Standing behind her was a man with a drooping mustache that needed trimming. His hair was dark but with silver strands, and it fell shaggily below each ear. He wore a gray, long-handled under shirt, and a suspender over each shoulder. Buckled about his hips was a gunbelt which held a Colt Peacemaker, very similar to Dusty’s. In one hand was a half full bottle of whiskey, and in the other, a glass that matched the one the woman was holding.

Dusty stepped forward boldly, as though he were more guest than prisoner. “Howdy, Vic.”

“Dusty,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

Dusty nodded. “I hear you’re still in business.”

Falcone nodded. “Thought about retiring, shortly after you left. But this is the only life I know.”

“What about Sam?”

Falcone shrugged. “About a year after you rode out, he did the same. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“Prob’ly dead,” Haynes put in.

Without looking at him, Dusty said, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Kiowa? One less man for you to be afraid of.”

Kiowas’s lips pulled back, like a wild animal about to strike, and he reached for his knife. Falcone’s right hand shot up, palm outward, in a stopping motion, and it had the desired affect on Kiowa. Then Falcone said to Dusty, “I see you two aren’t getting along any better than you ever did.”

Dusty shrugged. “I don’t get along with any man who gets his fun by scaring children. Threatening to carve them