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

nodded with a smile. “Many a man has done worse than riding a thousand miles on horseback for a girl.”

Hunter took another sip of coffee. “Well, Dusty, I sure could use the help, but I can’t afford it. Business is good, but it ain’t been that good, yet.”

“I ain’t askin’ for money. Just meals, and maybe a dry roof over my head for a few days.”

Hunter gave him a long look. This was the slow time of the week. Monday afternoon. Just two evenings earlier, the barroom had been filled with cowpunchers, pouring down beer and whiskey, and playing cards. A couple of fights had broken out, resulting in overturned tables, and Hunter had to knock some heads together. And there had been the fight between Josh and Reno, one of the finest examples of fisticuffs Hunter had seen in a while. Josh was sure a chip off the old block.

Hunter could have used the help Saturday night, but at the moment, as far as odd jobs went, there was simply nothing that needed doing that Hunter could not do himself.

Yet, there was something he could not quite place about this boy, and he did not want him to leave until he figured it out.

“Tell you what,” Hunter found himself saying. “Can you push a broom?”

“Yeah. Done it before.”

“When your coffee’s done, finish the floor. Then, there’s some wood out back that could use splitting. I’m not much of a cook, but you’re welcome to stay and have supper here.”

“I’m beholding to you.”

It was as Hunter watched Dusty push the broom, a swamper who wore his gun like a gunfighter, that it came to Hunter who this boy reminded him of. The way the boy walked, the set of his shoulders, and the way his gun seemed to be almost a part of him.

Now ain’t that damned peculiar, he mused.

EIGHT

Dusty slept in the livery stable, his blankets unrolled on a layer of hay. He had made an arrangement with the man who operated the stable – he would be on hand at midday to act as hostler when the stage arrives, help change teams, and he could have a free place to sleep. Breakfasts were provided by Hunter, usually fried eggs and steak.

Hunter would often become distracted while the steaks were frying, and they would be sooty and flattened by the time they were served. Since Dusty had something of a knack for cooking, he volunteered to handle the breakfast duties one morning. First he tenderized the beef, hammering at it with the butt of an unloaded pistol, then he fried it, flipping it over regularly, which Hunter tended to forget to do. Dusty added salt occasionally. He served steaks that were juicy, excessively tasty, and not laborious to chew.

“You got a new job, Dusty,” Hunter said. “You’re the new breakfast cook.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to be the new supper cook, too.”

Hunter winced. “My cooking’s that bad?”

Dusty raised his brows and gave a quick nod.

Charlie Franklin, who owned the general store, was sitting at a table sipping coffee. Hunter did not officially open his saloon in the morning, but some of the locals liked to come in and drink some coffee and chat, so Hunter charged a penny a cup. Sometimes a newspaper that arrived on the stage the day before would be handed about.

“Hey, Hunter,” Franklin said. “The way those steaks smell, you ought to consider opening for breakfast.”

Franklin had a rounded stomach and thin, graying hair. Not the strong look of most of Hunter’s customers, but unlike the others, he had not spent most of life punching cows. But he was ambitious. Not only did he operate the general store, but he sold guns also, and dabbled in some gunsmithing.

“That’s a fine looking pistol, Dusty. Could I see it?”

Dusty drew the gun and handed it to him. Franklin held it out a couple feet before his eyes, squinting as he examined the piece. “Ah, yes. Fine looking. Forty-five?”

“Forty-four-forty,” Dusty said.

“You don’t say. The Colt Peacemaker. The gun of the future. Walnut grip. Nice balance. In ten years, this will be about the only gun you’ll ever see anyone carrying.”

“It’s a good gun,” Dusty said, as Franklin handed it back to him. “But I’m looking at a long ride overland, on horseback. All the way to Oregon. What I really need is a rifle.”

“Oregon? Your travels take you far, then.”

Dusty nodded. “They sure do.”

“Well, I have a fine selection of rifles.”

“Nothin’ I could afford, most likely. I don’t have any money, and I don’t plan on staying long enough to work and save any up.”

“I’m sorry to hear you’ll be leaving. The way you cook, it’d be a shame to lose you.” He looked at Hunter. “Take my advice seriously. A good breakfast in the morning is worth paying for. And those guests down at the hotel, they have cash, a valuable commodity in this town between cattle drives.”

Franklin also had a tub in the back room of his store, and sold a bath for a dime, and laundered clothes for fifty cents. Dusty had no money, but Hunter said for Franklin to add it to the saloon’s tab. Dusty allowed himself to enjoy the luxury of hot water and soap, on the agreement that he work it off at the saloon. The mountain water he had washed in while on the trail was rich in minerals and got you tolerable clean, but there was nothing like steaming water and lathery soap.

While he was bathing, Franklin washed Dusty’s clothes, and hung them on a line out back to dry.

“Don’t know exactly what to do with that buckskin shirt, but your trousers and union suit are clean and dry. And I took the liberty of patching the hole that was in the knee.”

Franklin also threw in a haircut and shave, though Dusty accepted the shave only. He had grown accustomed to longer hair during his years on the run with the Patterson gang. Once he