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

give the church-goers a feeling of separation from the more primal needs satisfied at Hunter’s or Miss Alisha’s. But from where Dusty sat on the boardwalk, he had a fair view of the building.

The young preacher stood by the steps, shaking hands and it seemed to Dusty, selling himself to the flock.

Dusty did not know how he felt about the concept of God. He believed, or rather, felt, that there was something to the concept. And when he was alone in the wilderness, he felt a serenity that seemed bigger than he was, especially in these Montana mountains.

“Do you believe in God?” Dusty had once asked Patterson.

Patterson shrugged. “I believe there is a God. I think everyone knows there is a God. They may try to talk themselves out of it, that such things are for superstitious fools, but deep down, in their heart, they know God exists. But I can’t say I believe in God. I’ve killed too many people, done too many wrong things, for him to believe in me.”

Dusty was not sure about that. It seemed to him a god who created the mountains, the streams, the pine woods covering these slopes, would be too optimistic to fully give up on anyone.

Dusty spent Sunday afternoon stretching out on the hay in the livery with a mug of Hunter’s cold beer within reach. And as darkness settled in, he stood on the boardwalk in front of the saloon, looking off to where the campfire had glowed the night before. The hills were dark. No sign of any fire. But Dusty wasn’t satisfied. He sat in his chair, rocking it back against the wall, and waited.

Hunter stepped out eventually for a breath of night air. “Dusty. I didn’t know you were out here.”

“Yeah. Just enjoying the night. I love the mountain air.”

Hunter nodded. “Even after all the years I’ve lived in these mountains, I can never get used to how crisp and clear the air is.”

Hunter brought Dusty a beer, then stepped in, and Dusty sat and looked off into the darkness. And to the hills outside of town.

No campfire at all. Still, something tugged at him.

He finished the beer, then rose to his feet and stepped into the barroom. Hunter had given him unlimited access to both kegs, part of the compensation for not being able to offer him pay. Dusty climbed the ladder down to the cool, damp root cellar, refilled the mug, and climbed back out. Hunter was leaning one elbow on the bar with a deck of cards in front of him, engaged in a game of solitaire. Hunter had a cigar going, and offered Dusty one. Dusty was not normally one to smoke, but what the hell? Good cigars did not come along every day.

With the cigar clenched in his teeth and the mug of beer in one hand, Dusty opened the front door a crack and looked off into the darkness toward where he knew the ridges to be, which he had crossed on his way into town from the McCabe Ranch a week earlier.

And there, high up on one of the ridges, was the glow of a campfire.

The following morning, he pulled on his buckskin shirt, rather than one of the shirts he had bought at Franklin’s. As he poked at some strips of bacon sizzling in a skillet on Hunter’s stove, he said to Hunter, “I need the morning off.”

“Why?”

“I’m gonna saddle-up and take me a ride through the hills around town.”

Hunter’s brows dropped questioningly. “Can’t it wait? The hills will be there after the noon stage leaves.”

“What’s in the hills may not wait. And I might be gone all day, and may not even be back until tomorrow.”

Hunter’s head rose a bit as understanding dawned on him. “You’re still worried about that campfire, aren’t you.”

Dusty nodded, and he told Hunter of the one he had seen the night before.

“It’s probably just some drifting cowhands,” Hunter said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“They didn’t drift very far, did they?”

“Maybe they wanted to stay in the area a couple days. It was Sunday. Maybe they wanted to attend the church service.”

“There weren’t any drifters in the crowd yesterday. I sat outside here and watched them all ride in. And if you were right, then why’d they move their camp? The fire wasn’t in the same place as it had been the night before.”

Dusty turned from the stove to look at Hunter. “It may be nothing. Or it may be some Indians escaped from the reservation, on the run. It may be any one of a dozen things. But I’ve seen how dangerous men operate. I’ve got to check this out.”

Hunter nodded. “I’ll get by today. You take care of yourself, up there in them hills alone.”

“I’ll be all right. I’ve had a lot of training in how to be all right.”

Before Dusty went to the livery to saddle up, he visited Franklin’s. The time for that Spencer rifle was now. A pistol was worn by a cowhand for protection, but not from outlaws or hostile Indians, like many a dime-novelist wanted folks back east to believe. It was protection from being dragged to death by your horse. The primary cause of death for a cowhand was being thrown from the often half saddle-broke mustangs they rode, finding one boot caught in a stirrup, and being dragged to death while the horse ran, or being trampled by its hooves. With a pistol at your side, you had at least a chance to shoot the animal and save your life. The pistol also gave you maneuverable shooting at close quarters, but generally, if accuracy was a requirement, you wanted a rifle.

“I’m here for that Spencer,” Dusty said. He unbuckled his gunbelt, and set it on the counter. “I’ll trade you this Peacemaker for it, straight-up.”

“I might be willing to let you start up a tab, Dusty. No need to lose your pistol.”

“Thank you kindly, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be in the area.”