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

“Why don’t we go talk to Mister Hunter about him?” Bree suggested. “Since he’s working there, it would stand to reason Mister Hunter would know more about him.”

Aunt Ginny fixed her with the Gaze. “I can think of many places more suitable for a young lady than a saloon.”

“He does look a little familiar, I guess,” Franklin said. “Now that you mention it. I hadn’t really noticed before.”

Her gaze fixed on him, not sternly, but with agreement, and something that might have been wonder. “Indeed.”

TEN

Zack Johnson rode along a trail that cut across the valley floor, a trail that had been made over the years by riders crossing from one end of the valley to the other. The trail was nothing more than a small dirt path with grass growing on either side.

Zack kept his horse to a shambling trot. The McCabe’s home was his destination, and he still had a couple of miles of terrain ahead of him, but he was in no hurry. He was enjoying the morning. It was still early enough so the heat of the day had not yet descended upon the land and a light northwesterly breeze stirred the grass. The sky was a deep blue – he had never seen it moreso – and an occasional heavy looking white cloud drifted low, near the horizon.

Zack Johnson was a year younger than Johnny McCabe’s forty. He stood a little taller, with wide shoulders and well muscled arms that filled the sleeves of a faded blue shirt. His hair was walnut colored, and was covered by a gray wide-brimmed stetson. His jaw was square and clean-shaven, his upper lip covered by a mustache that was showing strands of silver.

At his side was holstered a single Remington. Unlike Johnny, who would not even consider going to the outhouse without a pair of revolvers strapped to his sides, Zack carried only one. He had a second, which he kept home, and should need arise he could go and belt it on. A Winchester was tucked into a saddle boot beneath the pommel.

Zack was now a rancher, and before that, he had been a cowhand on the McCabe Ranch. But even before that, he had ridden with Johnny as a Texas Ranger, in the years immediately before the War Between the States, pursuing renegade Comanches, Mexican border raiders, and outlaws through the flatlands of southern Texas. They also pursued comely senoritas in the Texas border towns, drank too much whiskey and generally got into trouble.

Despite the tranquillity of the morning, it was with the eye of a Ranger that Zack surveyed the trail ahead of him.

Zack did not really expect to find Johnny McCabe at home. Johnny had ridden out a few weeks earlier to attend a cattle auction, and Zack knew Johnny loved to meander through the mountains, and would probably take his sweet time coming home, unless he found some choice stock. And Zack had some work waiting for him back at his own ranch, but he loved a morning ride, and this morning was simply too beautiful to pass up. Besides, he had not seen Aunt Ginny, Josh or Bree in weeks. Aunt Ginny was sort of a mother figure to him, as she was to all the cowhands who worked at the McCabe Ranch.

Zack knew Johnny had left Josh in charge of the ranch. Zack would never admit he was riding out to check on Josh. At least, not to Josh’s face. He was just riding out to visit the family.

As he was riding along, lost in his musing while he clung to the saddle in that natural sort of way a horseman has that gives the impression he and the horse are one, he was not even fully conscious of the scouring his trained eye was giving the trail before him and the land about him, until he caught a quick flash of light, like the sun can make reflecting against glass or metal. It came from a low ridge maybe a half mile to his right.

It had been only for an instant, and then it was gone, like it had never been there. Had he been glancing in another direction, or simply not looking about as he rode, he would have missed it. He did nothing to alter his horse’s gait, or even turn his head in the direction of the ridge for a better view. He did nothing to create an impression he had even noticed it.

Knowing a horse can many times sense a change in its rider’s mood, as a horse can come to know a rider much like a rider comes to know his horse, he said, “Keep it steady, boy. Everything’s all right.”

Without turning his head, he rolled his eyes in the direction of the ridge as much as he could. It was simply a sharp grassy rise, with a few short pines decorating the summit. Too steep for even a mountain-bred horse to climb from this direction, but he knew about a mile further along, the ridge would flatten out a bit, and was more easily accessible.

He rode along casually. At one point, he stopped to let his gelding blow, then continued along. A mile melted away behind him as the gelding’s gait ate up the distance. Then another half mile. Ahead of him now was a flat meadow, and ahead, reduced to the size of an acorn by the distance, was the McCabe house, smoke rising from its chimney.

As he approached, the house growing in size, he could see movement in the corral, a head bobbing as a man walked. Probably Fred. As Zack drew closer, he could see that it was indeed the McCabe wrangler.

Zack liked Johnny McCabe’s theory of making the wrangler a choice position, rather than the usual bottom-of-the-ladder job it was on most ranches. He was doing the same with his own ranch, with a young boy with the improbable name of Ramon Cormier,