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

raiders. So, when he volunteered to fight for the Union, with a feeling of loyalty for the country that was stronger than his loyalty for Texas, he was made commanding officer of a guerrilla unit. Their primary task was to attack and burn farms in Missouri that were owned by Confederate loyalists, and to burn bridges. Anything to hinder the Confederate Army.

The war ended, and while a former band of Union guerrilla raiders called the Red Legs were considered war heroes, and one member named Hickok went on to acquire almost legendary status, Confederate raiders like Jesse James and William Quantrill found themselves despised. Patterson found that, even though he and his men had fought on the side of the Union, they were somehow lumped together with Quantrill and the James brothers. Patterson figured it was because no other band of Union raiders acted with such methodical efficiency, and the Army and perhaps the country itself were afraid of them. They found they were unable to find work, as no one wanted one of Patterson’s raiders on their payroll. So, they simply continued their exploits, now for personal gain rather than a war effort. Soon the group, renamed the Patterson Gang, found themselves on reward posters in Kansas, Colorado and Texas.

As Sam told it, he and his men had ridden onto a farm one night, intending to steal some stock and raid the house for supplies. They struck after dark, and after they had done their damage, they took a torch to the house, as the chaos would better cover their getaway. However, one little boy had not screamed or cried. One dark eyed little boy, seven years old, had simply stood his ground with fists clenched and his jaw locked in determination as the house that had been his home erupted in flames, and riders swirled about, shooting and driving off horses and cattle.

Patterson reined up in front of the little boy and their gazes met. The boy would not break the eye contact. He would not give ground.

“Run!” Patterson shouted. “Get the hell out of here!”

The boy would not move. Patterson aimed a pistol at him, intending to frighten him away lest he be accidentally trampled by one of the horses. The boy held his ground firmly.

Patterson never knew quite it was about the boy – maybe the boy reminded him of himself, somehow. Finally, he scooped the boy up and sat him in front of the saddle, to keep him safe until the insanity ended. But when it was time to ride away, the building in flames and the man of the house lying dead with a bullet in him, and no other adult in sight, Patterson found he could not simply set the boy down in the middle of that kind of devastation and ride away.

Patterson asked the boy’s name.

“Dusty,” was all the boy would say.

Patterson had intended to deliver the boy to a church or some such place at the first opportunity, but somehow that opportunity never presented itself. The boy was wary of him at first, but as the family he had been with were dispassionate, never really knowing how to make a seven-year-old orphan boy feel welcome, and he did not even remember his mother, Patterson soon found himself becoming the boy’s parental figure. A bond began to form between the two, Patterson often claiming Dusty was the son he never had.

Dusty grew, and he remained with the Patterson gang. Many of the men objected, but they were afraid of Patterson’s temper and his skill with a gun, and so Dusty remained. Sam never allowed Dusty to participate in a raid or a robbery, and so his name was never included on any reward posters. At fifteen, Dusty took the chance Sam offered, and rode away with his name clean.

Dusty made a life for himself, working on ranches in Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. First as a wrangler, then as a cowhand. Once he rode shotgun for a stagecoach company. But in the back of his mind were always the questions – where was he from? Who were his parents? Patterson had said once the farm where he found Dusty was the Stowell place, and that old man Stowell had been some sort of Methodist missionary, come west to save the heathen Indians. So, from a bunkhouse on the Cantrell spread, Dusty had written letters to Methodist organizations in Missouri giving them the name Stowell. They replied with names and addresses of the Stowell kin, who all still lived back east, and it was from them he obtained the name Rose Callahan, a saloon woman from Carson City who had given her poor, fatherless child away. And so Dusty’s journey began, the long trail that eventually brought him here, to the chair he rocked back in, on a boardwalk in front of a saloon in Montana Territory.

He sometimes wondered what might have happened to Sam and the boys. About a year earlier, news of their exploits had stopped making the word-of-mouth circuit. Some said they thought Patterson might have been killed, but there was no official confirmation, and the reward posters remained up.

Dusty was brought out of his reflections by the sound of hoofbeats. He had dropped the brim of his hat over his eyes, and he now reached up with one hand to lift the hat enough to give him a view of the street, and the rider approaching. A thin man, forty-ish, in a wide brimmed hat, and a white shirt with suspenders strapped over his shoulders. He wore no gun, indicating he was probably not a cowhand – Dusty had yet to meet a cowhand who carried no gun at his side. The man rode easily, and swung out of the saddle with an ease and sureness that told Dusty that, even though he was not a cowhand, this man was an accomplished horseman. He gave the rein a couple turns about a hitching rail, then ambled onto the boardwalk,