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

pot holder in one hand as she reached for the heated handle. She glanced over one shoulder toward the doorway, and gave a casual, “Hi, Mister Hunter.”

Then she caught sight of Dusty and suddenly straightened, her eyes growing wide in a nervous rush of embarrassment. She reached one hand to her kerchief and found the loose hair, and sighed with resignation.

“Bree,” Hunter said. “This is Dusty. He’s been working for me at the saloon.”

“We met earlier at Mister Franklin’s,” she said. Then, her voice bending with a touch of hesitant shyness, “Hello again, Mister Dusty.”

Dusty chuckled. “It’s just Dusty, Miss. Not ‘mister.’”

Dusty found himself a little embarrassed himself, but not because he was caught with unsightly hair. This girl, apparently attracted to him, did not realize he was her brother.

“Sabrina,” Miss Brackston said, “Get two more cups and saucers, please.”

At Miss Brackston’s request, they retired to the parlor while Bree continued to fix the evening’s dinner. Dusty noticed Miss Brackston did not use the word supper. She seemed to be a woman of sophistication. And Dusty figured, some education.

She took the rocker by the hearth, and suggested Dusty help himself to one of the stuffed chairs.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Hunter volunteered to stir a fire to life in the hearth.

She said, “That would be nice, Mister Hunter. Thank you.”

Miss Brackston was drinking tea, not coffee, and she took a sip.

She said, “I do feel a bit embarrassed about the two of you having to come all the way out from town, but Zack felt it was necessary. I’m sure we would have been all right.”

Dusty spoke up. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I think he’s right.”

He told her of the campfires he had seen during the previous two nights. “This morning I rode out, found one of their campsites, and I followed their trail a few miles. They’re covering a lot of territory, but they’re riding in circles. Never roaming far from this valley, and apparently circling back to this area every evening.”

“What might that indicate?” she asked.

Dusty glanced to Hunter, who was on one knee in front of the fireplace, stacking some wood for burning. He gave Dusty a quick nod, and Dusty returned his gaze to Miss Brackston. “It means they’re scouting the area. They’re raiders, ma’am.”

“Raiders? What could they possibly want? There’s no money in this valley, or in town. There’s not even a bank.”

“I doubt they expect to find money. They’re most likely looking for horses – raiders are always looking for horses. And there’s clothing, guns, ammunition. And there’s... well..,” he did not know quite how to voice this last thought.

“Women.” She finished it for him.

“Yes’m.”

She looked to Hunter. “So you abandoned your establishment in the face of a possible strike by raiders to come out here and protect us.”

“I can always rebuild. But I agree with Dusty. They’ll want horses, more than whiskey. This is the biggest ranch within a couple days’ ride. There aren’t many horses in town, and Zack’s remuda is only about half the size of what you have here.”

“There are women in town. That den of iniquity run by the illustrious Miss Summers might be a target."

Dusty answered, “I don’t think that very likely. To a man on the run, a good horse, food and ammunition will be first in his thoughts. And clothing, too. It’s not like he can just walk into a store and buy a new shirt. Not when there’s a price on his head. Ammunition and clothing they can get at Franklin’s, but for horses and food, especially horses, they’ll have to hit a place like this. And any women who might already be on a place where their other needs can be met could be targets.”

“It’s becoming apparent that you did a dangerous thing today, young man. Riding out there alone, trailing those men.”

Hunter piped up, “You must be pretty good at it, too, because Zack never mentioned finding fresh tracks made by a single rider.”

Dusty shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Though, he knew that was not true at all. He had never considered himself lucky, other than that he had received good teaching along the way. He had simple ridden in the tracks of the riders he was trailing. His tracks would have appeared a little fresher than those made by the raiders, but not enough to stand out significantly.

To Miss Brackston, he said, “I don’t know if it was all that dangerous, ma’am. I was all right. No one can find me if I don’t want to be found.”

He had not meant that to come out as arrogantly as it sounded. He thought of adding that he was trained by the best, but that might just create questions he did not want to answer. If it became known he had been raised by Sam Patterson, the folks in and around McCabe Town would look at him as a potential outlaw, too. He seemed to be well liked by these folks, and didn’t want to lose their respect. And he found, even though he had but met Miss Brackston today, it was somehow important to him to have her respect, too.

They ate dinner at the kitchen table. Fred paced about outside with a rifle in his arms while the others ate, then Hunter went out to relieve him.

“Mister McCabe has a fine collection of cigars,” Miss Brackston said to Dusty, “and he enjoys one after a meal on occasion. I am sure he wouldn’t mind if I offered you one.”

“Thank you, Miss Brackston. That would be right nice.”

“And it’s not ‘Miss Brackston,’” she said. “The boys always call me Aunt Ginny, and I don’t see why you should be an exception.”

“Thank you, Aunt Ginny.”

Dusty found this cigar was one of the finest he had ever lit up, savoring the initial draught, and letting it out slowly.

“Mister McCabe has good taste in cigars,” he said.

On the desk were three photographs, in three matching frames. A young man, about Josh’s age, with light colored hair. Another, maybe a little