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

I’m judging you, because I surely wouldn’t do that. You raised me and I’ll always be beholdin’ to you. But even though it might sound strange to anyone who doesn’t know you, if I joined you and the boys, I’d be going against all you taught me.”

“I was hoping that’d be your answer.” Sam extended his hand and Dusty shook it. “You ride, boy. Roll up your bedroll, saddle your horse and ride. And don’t look back. I love you like my own son, and I’ll miss you. But it’s the best thing for you.”

And now, three years later, without a cent to his name and no food in his saddle bags, he still refused to take anything that did not belong to him, or which he had not earned.

The grassy floor of the valley stretched before him, and he allowed his horse an easy shambling trot, and eventually they climbed into a forest of hardwoods, aspen and birch mostly, as they neared the pass.

The afternoon sun was beginning to ride a little low in the sky, and his stomach was rumbling. A squirrel had made for a skimpy breakfast, and that had been many hours earlier. He thought he might ride into the small town and see if he could possibly find some work to do in exchange for a meal, and then possibly bed down in the livery. His blankets unrolled on a layer of straw would not be quite the bed he wanted, but at least he would be under a roof. Even though it was June and could be quite warm by day, the nights at this altitude still tended to be a little chilly.

Dusty wanted to lay low, to remain inconspicuous until he decided what approach, if any, he was going to take with his father. Maybe spending a few days in this town, working for his meals and sleeping at the livery, would be ideal. He had noticed a saloon earlier, and thought he might try it first. Chop some wood, maybe, or sweep a floor. Hell, maybe even serve beer. He had gained some experience with that in Nevada.

He followed the small pass between two wooded ridges, and fell into the shadows of early twilight. Beyond the pass, he came to a softly rounded grassy rise, and he guided his horse up into it, which brought him back into sunshine. Down below, not two hundred yards away, a grizzly lumbered along.

The bear was keeping a roughly parallel course. Dusty’s horse had not yet seen the animal, and as the wind was wrong, had not caught the bear’s scent.

“Keep right on a-goin’, big feller,” Dusty said toward the bear, but loosened his pistol in his holster just to make himself feel a little more safe.

Of course, a pistol was not the ideal weapon to bring down a grizzly with. Sure, if the bear was close enough, and you were a hell of a shot, you could place your bullet correctly in a vital place like an eye socket and kill the bear. But to have enough nerve to hold your pistol steady for a shot as a grizzly charged down on you would be quite a feat. You would not think because of a grizzly’s tired, sloppy way of moving, with its head bobbing about as though the animal were simple-minded, that it could run quickly enough to be a threat to anyone. But a grizzly could be deceptively fast. If a grizzly was within pistol range and running toward you at full speed, you would have time to miss only once.

Dusty decided to add a rifle to his list of wants, to be filled once he found work. A Winchester, maybe. He intended not to begin the long ride to Oregon without one. As a cowpuncher, he did not really need one, and it might prove cumbersome, but for long distance riding, he decided a pistol simply did not provide enough fire power.

The bear lumbered on, going about its business. Dusty continued on his way toward the little town.

The late afternoon breeze was turning crisp and clear. Mountain air. Prior to this, he had spent little time in the mountains. For a time, the Patterson gang made a hideout in a cabin on a ridge in Colorado, and once a posse had chased them clear to what was then the southwestern end of Montana Territory, which was now starting to be called Idaho. And the Cantrell Ranch stood before a backdrop of mountains; at times the mountain air would drift down - cool, crisp and clean. He could understand why his father would want to bring his children here.

Dusty descended onto a long grassy plain, and at its center was the small cluster of buildings that made up the town. At the last cattle camp, which had been a week ago, one of the cowpokes had said the name of this little place was McCabe Town.

This time, Dusty did not cut a wide circle. He rode onto the town’s only street, his horse’s head hanging with fatigue. The animal had been living on mountain grass, which can be rich in what a horse needs to maintain strength and stamina, but Dusty had been covering a lot of miles each day, and the animal was simply worn out. It needed a long rest in the town’s livery stable.

However, before either he or his horse were to be granted rest, he needed to find work. The first order of business. Dusty reined up in front of a structure made of wooden planks, with a sign over the front door reading HUNTER’S SALOON. This was the place to start. Dusty swung out of the saddle, gave the rein a couple of turns about the hitching rail, then stepped up and onto the boardwalk, and through swinging batwing doors.

Hunter was idly pushing a broom, sweeping gravel and dust into a little pile at the center of the room, when he heard the doors swing inward and the