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

He still had not decided whether he was going to ride out to the McCabe house, bold as Boston brass, and introduce himself as Johnny McCabe’s long lost bastard son, or simply ride on to Oregon.

Franklin slid the revolver from its holster to examine it.

“Careful,” Dusty said. “It’s loaded.”

“It’s a beauty, that’s for certain. The Colt Peacemaker will set the standard for pistols for many years to come.”

Franklin pulled the hammer half-way back then pulled the trigger, and with his free hand gave the cylinder a spin. “It’s in great condition. Oiled like it just came from the factory.”

“I was taught to always take care of my guns and my horses. You don’t know when you might have to rely on one or the other to save your life.”

Franklin looked up at Dusty curiously, almost as though he was trying to discern if Dusty was joking, but there was no sign of a smile on Dusty’s face. “All right, Dusty. An even trade, it is.”

“Can you throw in a box of cartridges? A rifle ain’t much good without ‘em.”

“One box is all I have. I don’t get much call for Spencer ammunition, anymore.”

From a box behind the counter, Franklin grasped a box and handed it to Dusty.

“Before the deal is final,” Dusty said, “I’d like to take it out back and try a few shots.”

“By all means, please do.”

A pine grew a hundred yards behind Franklin’s store, reaching more than eighty feet to the sky, its trunk as straight as an arrow’s shaft. The rifle was a fifty-two caliber. Dusty loaded seven shots, then chambered a round. He drew a bead on a branch of the pine tree, and fired. The branch splintered. Dusty jacked in another cartridge, and with this shot, broke the branch cleanly.

Franklin was standing in the back doorway, watching Dusty select another branch and begin whittling away at it. Fine marksmanship. Franklin loved to watch a display of good shooting skills.

“Excuse me,” came a woman’s voice from behind him.

Franklin turned with a start. “Oh. Miss Ginny. I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“Obviously,” Aunt Ginny said, her hands on her hips, one brow raised.

Aunt Ginny wore a bonnet, and dangling from one hand was a drawstring purse. Behind her stood a dark-haired girl, maybe two inches taller, and she also wore a bonnet.

“Miss Ginny,” Franklin said. “Miss Bree.”

“Hi, Mister Franklin,” Bree said.

“I was just watching a pretty incredible example of marksmanship out back,” he offered in explanation for not greeting his customers as they walked in the door, but knew it would be futile.

“I trust it was quite extraordinary,” Aunt Ginny said curtly. “Meanwhile, we are here on our monthly visit for supplies.”

From her purse she produced a list, and handed it to Franklin, who quickly tied an apron about his waist and set to filling the order. Two sacks of coffee...two sacks of flour..,

The shooting out back ceased, and Dusty stepped in. “This gun’s fine, Franklin. Shoots a little to the left, but nothing I can’t compensate for.”

He glanced at the women. With one hand he touched the brim of his hat. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said to Aunt Ginny, then offered another “howdy” to Bree.

“Hi,” Bree said, breaking into a smile that openly said she liked what she saw.

But Ginny simply stared.

“Well, Dusty,” Franklin said. “It’s good doing business with you. And that was some of the finest shooting I’ve seen since Johnny McCabe, himself. Oh, by the way, this is Miss Virginia Brackston, and Mister McCabe-himself’s daughter, Bree.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Dusty said, realizing the girl with the smile must have been the one he had observed riding away from the McCabe ranch house a week earlier. His sister.

“Ladies,” Franklin said, continuing the introductions, “this is Dusty. I never did get his last name.”

Without a response, Dusty said, “I’ll take the gun. It shoots just fine.”

“Well, then, I guess we can call it a deal. Do you want a receipt?”

Dusty shook his head. “A handshake’s always been good enough for me.”

Franklin extended his hand and Dusty shook it. Franklin said, “Nice doing business with you.”

“I’d best be goin’. Got a big day ahead of me.” He glanced to Aunt Ginny and Bree, and touched the brim of his hat again. “Nice meeting’ you ladies.”

He crossed the floor, his gait light and easy, the rifle in one hand and the box of ammunition in the other, and he was out the door.

“Ma’am,” Franklin said, “you got peaches on the list, but you don’t say how many cans.”

But Ginny did not hear him, her gaze fixed on the now empty doorway. “My God.”

“Ma’am?”

She crossed the floor herself, to stand in the doorway as the young man called Dusty ambled down the street toward the livery stable.

Ginny turned, her gaze fixed straight ahead, but seeing nothing.

“Aunt Ginny?” Bree asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost. Not exactly.” She returned to the counter. “Mister Franklin, tell me about that young man.”

The question caught Franklin as odd, because it had nothing to do whatsoever with what he thought was the matter of hand, which was the number of cans of peaches Aunt Ginny wanted. But he dared not make her state her demand twice. Otherwise, she might fix him with the Gaze, which always made Franklin feel like he wanted to crawl into his shoes and hide.

“Well, I don’t know much about him, really. He rode in a week ago, has been working at Hunter’s, doing whatever job there is to do. Even cooking. He’s good with a gun. Stopped some trouble Saturday night with a draw that was in the class of Mister McCabe himself.

“I wasn’t there, of course,” he added quickly, “so I didn’t see it.”

“Of course,” Aunt Ginny said.

“He just traded-in his gun for that rifle he was shooting out back.”

Bree said, “What is it, Aunt Ginny? Do you know him?”

“I don’t know.” She was openly puzzled, a sight that caused Bree to raise a brow of concern. Not much ever