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

two of them, one holstered at either side. Josh had been intending to save his money for a Remington, but a couple years earlier Colt had introduced a new pistol, the Peacemaker, which was equal to the Remington in balance and accuracy, but quicker and easier to load. To buy one of those was now his goal. Yet, no matter what he used for a pistol, he doubted his draw or marksmanship would ever be the match of Pa’s.

When Pa drew, his gun seemed to almost leap into his hand, and his bullet would find his target almost like it had eyes and was seeking it out. Pa’s skills with a gun seemed like he was putting no effort into it at all, as though the gun was simply his to command. He had said it felt more like simply letting his draw or his shooting happen, rather than making it happen.

Josh found being the son of Johnny McCabe wasn’t easy. Not because of anything Pa ever said or done. But without even seeming to know it, the man cast a rather large shadow.

As Josh rode along, he let his gaze travel slowly over the terrain ahead and to each side, and turned periodically to survey the ground he had just covered. He was not expecting trouble, but Pa had taught him to always be alert. This was wild land. Remote. The nearest law was days away by horseback. And even then, the lawman had local authority only, his jurisdiction ending at the edge of town.

Josh had left behind the little valley they called home. He was now riding through long grassy hills that each covered a quarter mile of area, in a gradual rise to a rounded summit. Ahead, the land fell away to an even lower, longer series of hills. Behind him, visible when at the top of a grassy rise, were the foothills, now hazy with distance, and appearing dark due to the junipers and pines covering. Further back, the foothills would rise into forested ridges. It was in a valley amongst those ridges that the McCabe house stood.

Josh rode a chestnut colored mustang with a blonde mane and two blonde stockings. The horse was small, not more than fourteen hands, but was mountain bred and could run all day. It was Josh’s first choice when going mustanging. The animal took naturally to pulling against a rope, which was beneficial when you were trying to hold a wild one at the other end of that rope after dropping a loop over its neck.

Josh had been letting the horse have its head, and for this horse, having its head meant running. The horse loved to pound its hooves into the earth and let the miles roll by. Josh had not named the horse, but his sister, Bree, called it Rabbit because of its speed. Josh thought this was a stupid name, and his sister tended to be annoyingly cutesy too much of the time. Never-the-less, the name seemed to stick, and even Josh found himself, much to his own dismay, thinking of the horse by that damned name.

Rabbit had been moving at almost a full gallop for the previous three miles, and wanted to do more, but Josh reined up at the top of a grassy rise. Rabbit pounded his hooves a bit in protest, and let out a snort, but Josh held the reins firmly and Rabbit acquiesced. Despite the dumb name, this horse had brass.

Pa had said a good horse was often the difference between life and death out here on the remote frontier. Josh was more than willing to put his confidence in Rabbit.

Rabbit was lathered from running, so Josh let him blow. As he sat in the saddle, Josh let his gaze drift across the countryside below. It was just beyond the base of the long hill that a patch of earth looked somehow disturbed. Torn up. Like the earth can sometimes be after a herd is driven through, or a large group of riders has passed by.

Josh let Rabbit catch his wind for a few minutes more, then touched his heels to the horse’s ribs to start forward, but kept the horse to a walk. As he approached the base of the hill, he could see clearly the sod had indeed been torn up by hooves. Riders, many of them, had passed through recently.

Before Josh had even learned how to read, he had been taught by Pa how to read sign. Pa claimed Josh had become one of the best trackers he had ever seen, though Josh knew Pa and Zack Johnson were still a few steps ahead of him.

Josh gave a tug on the reins to stop Rabbit by the torn-up sod, and allowed himself time to study these tracks. Many riders, indeed. Exactly how many, he could not tell, as the tracks of one would cross over those of another, and obliterate part of the trail.

Whenever he and Pa followed the trail of an animal, - they had trailed many an elk through the mountains simply for the practice - Pa would ask, “What can you tell me about the animal, just by looking at the tracks?”

Josh asked himself this now. What could he learn about these riders, simply by looking at their trail?

Well, they were not in a hurry. The horses were kept to a walk as they passed through – the hoofprints were too close together to have been made by running horses. At the very best, some of them might have been moving at a light trot. And they were all shod.

Josh found himself curious. A large body of riders traveling through the grasslands a few miles east of the ranch house. There were no trails to follow out here; the nearest would be the stage route, which was eight or ten miles south. Sioux renegades maybe, but not too damned likely. The Sioux, who had been living freely when Pa first brought his family to Montana,