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

“You know something, Kiowa? You’ve been wanting to kill me ever since I was eight years old. And the sad part is, when you finally get your chance, it still won’t change what you are.”

“And what is that, muchacho?”

“You’re a coward. A stupid one, at that. You always have been, and killing me won’t change that.”

Loggins said, “I’d shut up if I was you, boy. If you want to live the night.”

Josh could tell where this was going. Despite the fact that he was tied up and due to be killed slowly in the morning, he had to admit he was enjoying the thrill of this. Like poker, but with deadly stakes.

“I wouldn’t stand by Kiowa,” Josh said to Loggins. “Not considering the way I’ve seen him look at your woman. And from what I hear, when he’s done with a woman, he doesn’t leave much left.”

Loggins shot a glance to Kiowa, but Kiowa rose to his feet, ignoring Loggins, and took a few steps toward Josh and Dusty. His knife was in one hand and his whiskey bottle in the other. “Another word out of either of you, and I will cut your tongues out.”

Dusty rolled over to his knees, then rose to his feet. “Spoken like a coward, Kiowa. Only a coward would have to wait until a man’s hands are tied to kill him.”

Kiowa started for him. Dusty attempted to side step, but Kiowa slammed him in the chest with the whiskey bottle, whiskey slopping onto Dusty’s buckskin shirt, and Dusty was knocked backward. Kiowa continued forward, standing over Dusty with his knife ready. He tossed aside the bottle.

“Now, little muchacho,” Kiowa hissed. “You don’t feel so brave, do you? There ain’t no Sam Patterson to protect you. Maybe I skin you alive, and not wait for morning?”

Dusty raised a leg and drove the sole of his boot into Kiowa’s groin. Kiowa gave a sharp, raspy inhale, and his eyes went wide as he dropped to his knees. He was well within range of Josh, who raised a foot and drove it into Kiowa’s shoulder.

Kiowa tumbled down the hill, his legs now folded under him.

Stew and Loggins were making no attempt to suppress their laughter; it simply rolled from them.

Dusty rose to his feet again. “It’s a good thing my hands are tied,” he called down to Kiowa. “You’d be in a lot worse shape than you are now. You ain’t dealing with an eight-year old boy now.”

A gun went off, and all heads turned toward the cabin, and the source. There stood Falcone. A revolver was in his hand, aimed toward the sky. Smoke drifted from the barrel.

“What’s going on here?” he bellowed.

“Just teaching that madman you call a scout some manners,” Dusty said.

Loggins had ceased his laughter at the boss’s gunshot, but he was still smiling. “He took Kiowa out of the fight with his hands tied.”

“Hey,” Josh said, indignant. “I helped.”

Falcone looked at Dusty curiously, and holstered his pistol. He said nothing, but nodded approvingly.

From the bottom of the slope, Kiowa screamed, “I’ll kill you!”

Kiowa was on his knees, still bent forward from the pain reaching upward into his kidneys, and down into his legs. He drew his pistol and cocked the hammer. “I’ll shoot you down where you stand.”

Falcone whipped his own pistol once again into his hand cocking it as he drew, and placed a shot that kicked up dirt inches from Kiowa. Kiowa pulled back, lost his balance, and fell onto his side.

“Not until morning!” Falcone shouted. “That is my order. Disobey it, and I will shoot you myself.”

Dusty stepped forward. “Vic, I want to have a word with you.”

“I am not changing my mind,” Falcone said firmly.

“I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal? You are hardly in the position..,”

“I want to talk to you in private.”

Falcone was silent a moment, considering. Then, he said, wearily, “Step into the cabin.”

Dusty, his wrists still bound behind him, stepped into the cabin, followed by Falcone.

The lighting inside the cabin was dim this late in the afternoon. Falcone struck a match and brought to life the lamp standing on the table, then turned the flame up. Its pale glow filled the small room.

Falcone walked around to the other side of the table, pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He reached for an empty whiskey bottle beside the lamp, gave it a glance, saw it was empty and set it back down.

“Vic, what’s happened to you?” Dusty asked.

Falcone carried himself with a military stiffness, like he had years earlier. But now his hair was unkempt, which it had never been. There was a dark circle under each eye, and he was drinking more than he ever had. From what Dusty could determine, Falcone spent most of his time inside this cabin with Flossy and a bottle of whiskey.

Falcone looked at him a moment, as if he needed a moment for the question to settle in. Then he carelessly shrugged his shoulders. Sort of a combination of I don’t know, and I don’t really care.

Dusty continued. “You drink way too much, Vic. You spend all your days in this cabin, drinking and whoring. How much longer do you think you can keep a handle on those men, especially Kiowa, like this?”

“I’ve been learning something, Dusty. Something I suppose I knew all along, which is sometimes the hardest thing to learn. This sort of life is a dead end. I fear my demise is probably coming soon, regardless. After all, how long can a man live this life?”

Damn, but he was hard to follow, sometimes, throwing around ten dollar words. Kind of like Aunt Ginny.

Falcone continued, “Maybe the attack on the McCabe Ranch that went so poorly was part of it. I guess I felt like the wind came out of my sails when that happened. I rode in with as large a complement of men as Patterson had ever assembled, and we were more than cut in half. Thirteen went in. Only five rode