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

from the other side of the canyon had appeared to be sheer rock. Yet, scaling that wall seemed to be his only course of action. To hide from men like Falcone and Loggins indefinitely within the confines of this canyon would be impossible. And they would be watching the pass into the canyon too closely for him to have a chance of using to escape.

However, could he scale the wall before they located him, and came within shooting range? A chance he would have to take. His only chance, he figured.

And at least they were chasing him, and not Josh.

He resumed running, stepping as carefully as he could along the pine needle laden forest floor so that he wouldn’t leave any noticeable boot prints. He stepped around any fallen branches, as even a broken twig could indicate to men like Falcone and Loggins that he had passed this way.

He emerged from the trees to find maybe three hundred feet of open ground, covered with light grass and choppy with outcroppings of bedrock, separating him from the canyon wall. Damn. Even more of a chance for one of his pursuers to get off a good shot at him before he could completely scale the wall.

He was huffing for breath. He had spent most of his years in a saddle and not afoot, and it now showed. His legs felt wobbly, and sweat was streaming down his face. A couple chugs from a cold canteen, he thought - what he wouldn’t give for that right now.

But he had no time to waste. He charged across the uneven ground, expecting at any moment for a gun to fire from behind and plant a bullet in his back. But he ran without looking back. To look back would cause him to break stride, and maybe lose a valuable second. A second that might make the difference between life and death.

The wall was maybe twenty feet of bedrock, not as sheer as it had appeared, being corrugated with rough edges and small shelves. Lots of hand and footholds, he thought. But rising at almost a perfect right angle from the canyon floor.

He noticed a crack at one point that was jagged like a lighting bolt, and it was here that he began his climb.

One leather sole slipped on the rock, but he held on with both hands and kicked around to regain his footing.

He scraped a finger, which would probably bleed, but only if he could get to the top of the wall before anyone shot him from down below. Dead men don’t bleed.

The crack in the rock ended eight feet from the canyon rim, and Dusty didn’t not have much room from which to jump. Immediately overhead was a small pine, leaning over the edge of the wall, and this would be Dusty’s goal. He knew if he missed the tree, there would be nothing between himself and a thirty foot fall to the canyon floor. And even if he managed to obtain a firm grip on the tree, its roots might not be strong enough to hold him for more than a moment or two.

He drew a breath. He needed all of the strength he could muster. Even had he been well rested, he wouldn’t have wanted to bet on making this jump, but now, with his legs wobbly and his energy nearly spent, he had a feeling this jump might be the last thing he would ever do.

A bullet zinged at the rock near one hand, kicking off a chip of stone, and a moment later, the crack of gunfire from down below reached him.

He allowed himself a glance back and down over one shoulder. Falcone and Loggins had both emerged at the edge of the trees. Loggins had obtained a Winchester. He had been the one shooting, because Dusty was still out of pistol range.

Loggins was already jacking the rifle, chambering a round for another shot. Dusty turned his eyes back to the pine overhead, and sprang upward. He wrapped the fingers of his left hand about the slender trunk of the small pine. It bent under his weight, but the roots held. Dusty found himself dangling above the canyon.

With his right hand he grasped at the top of the wall, finding the earth soft. He managed to find a handhold, as a second bullet caught the shoulder of his shirt, tearing away some buckskin but missing his flesh. He let go of the pine, and grasped frantically at the canyon rim with his left, then began pulling himself upward until his shoulders were above the edge of the canyon.

Then the earth gave way, and he found himself slipping backward and down. He scrambled with his feet against the rock facing of the wall to slow his descent. His fingers clawed out at the earth frantically, but he could find no firm handhold.

Suddenly, a hand reached out from above, and gripped his right. It was a huge hand entirely enveloping his. He looked upward to see the bearded face of Hunter.

With his free hand Dusty clamped onto the top of Hunter’s big paw, and using only one hand Hunter pulled him upward and free of the canyon, as a third shot was fired from below.

And there was Zack Johnson, a few yards from Hunter, kneeling at the edge of the canyon wall, Pa’s Sharps buffalo rifle pressed against his shoulder. He was drawing a bead on the men below.

Zack squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked against his shoulder with a loud boom, and Loggins, still at the edge of the trees, was caught squarely in the chest. Despite the distance, the force of the shot lifted Loggins into the air and dropped him backwards to the earth.

“Even the old man himself couldn’t have done better than that,” Johnson said, a small smirk decorating his face, and he slid the action open, pulled out the empty cartridge, and dropped in another one.

The sling he had been wearing around his left arm was