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

“Don’t matter,” Tarley said. “You either go for your gun, or turn your horse around and go home.”

Josh stared silently at Tarley, his own hand falling to within reach of the Colt Navy resting at his side. Whitey glanced warily to Tarley, then moved back, away from the reach of any bullets that might stray.

The challenge had been made, and Josh accepted. He had shot many a can from a rail fence, and had exchanged rifle shots with raiders and renegade Indians, but this was the first time he had ever faced a man, ready to draw.

A strange calmness overtook him, and he was breathing slow and easy.

Tarley was smiling. He believed himself to be the faster gun, and that this fight was over before it could begin.

Josh watched Tarley carefully, keeping his gaze on Tarley’s eyes, not his gunhand. Always watch a man’s eyes, Pa had said. His gunhand will move too fast for you to react to, but his eyes will betray his movement a moment before he makes it.

The passage of time seemed to slow as the two faced each other. Josh’s horse lifted one hoof and set it down out of boredom. A gust of wind wobbled the brim of Josh’s hat, and the sun felt warm on his shoulders.

Then, it happened. A flicker of intent in Tarley’s eyes. This is it, Josh knew! And each man reached for his gun, Josh a second of a fraction behind Tarley.

Both pistols cleared leather, but Josh overtook Tarley and gained the lead as each brought his pistol up to fire. Josh fired first, his bullet digging into Tarley’s shoulder. Tarley’s gun went off and Josh felt the bullet’s wind as it whizzed past his cheekbone.

Tarley spun with the impact of Josh’s bullet and fell to the earth, his revolver still in his grip.

The whole thing had taken maybe two seconds.

Josh’s horse, suddenly startled, began to rear up on its hind legs, but Josh pulled tightly on the reins, and it returned to all fours.

Josh cocked his pistol, and said, “Let go of the gun, Tarley.”

Tarley was gripping his shoulder with his left hand and he let the pistol fall to the earth.

Whitey’s mouth was hanging open. “Just like his Pa.”

“Now,” Josh said, “you men get him into the saddle and into town before he bleeds to death.”

SIX

Josh knew pride in yourself was a useless thing. Dangerous, even. Aunt Ginny had told him many a time pride is nothing more than artificially inflating your sense of self-worth based on accomplishments, which is not the same as feeling self-respect because of who you were. What kind of ethics you had, or beliefs. Or philosophies. Regardless, pride was what he felt as he rode toward the valley. A man never knows how he will react to a situation until he faces it, and Josh had handled his first gunfight like a man. Like a McCabe. He had not become afraid, with a trembling voice and shaking hands, and turned to run, as he had seen some men do. He had calmly faced his opponent, and let skill prevail. And nerve.

Pa had taught him that it takes more than simply skill to win a gunfight. Growing up on the frontier, Josh had seen Pa forced into a gunfight on four separate occasions, and believed there was none faster. But Pa claimed to have faced more than one who was faster than he was. It was not speed, Pa had said, but nerve that enabled him to win. It takes skill to be able to pull a gun from a holster in less time than it takes to talk about it, without shooting your foot in the process, but it requires a steely nerve to hold the gun steady when another man is aiming a pistol at you, and to make your shot count.

Josh found he had that nerve. He had proven it to himself this day, and to Reno and to Whitey. And most of all, to Tarley, who would probably regain most of the use of his right arm. But he would remember.

Josh had been shooting to kill. He would be a liar to claim he had not tried – intentionally trying to wing a man only, or shooting a gun from a man’s hand, was the stuff of legends and bad dime novels. Don’t get fancy, Pa had told him. I hope you never have to use your gun against a man, but if it comes to that, don’t try any trick shooting. Shoot to kill. Because that’s what your opponent will be doing to you.

However, he was not above admitting his shot had strayed a little, landing not in Tarley’s chest as intended, but his shoulder. But Josh was glad. Even relieved. He had killed before, and had not liked the feeling. A small band of Sioux warriors had struck the ranch two years earlier, swooping down from the wooded hills to the valley floor where the house stood. Josh, the lightest in weight, was sent to the peak of the roof with a rifle, while Pa, Zack, the wrangler and a couple cowhands manned windows at each side of the house. With a Winchester in his hands, Josh had dropped two riders.

Once the fight was over, Josh went to see close-up the men he had killed. One was a boy only a year or two older than he was, lying with lifeless eyes staring skyward.

Josh felt a strong hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see the ocean blue eyes of his father, the strong jaw, the face lined like a war map from years of riding into the sun and wind.

Pa said, “It’s not a pleasant thing, even though you had to do it.”

Josh shook his head. “No, sir. It ain’t pleasant at all.”

“You became a man today. And you made me proud.”

Josh didn’t understand Tarley, who risked death simply to prove a point. Some might have felt Josh reckless for accepting the challenge,