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

“That would be Mister McCabe’s children,” Aunt Ginny said. “Joshua, who is off at the line camp right now. And Jackson, who is away at school. And you have met Sabrina.”

She excused herself to the kitchen to help Bree with a few things, and Dusty stood by the desk, upon which the box of cigars set, and surveyed the room. The house of his father.

Out in the kitchen was his sister. Returning soon would be his brother. And no one at this ranch, nor in town for that matter, could possibly know Dusty to be anything but a cowhand drifting through, a cowhand who was a little too good with a gun.

He found himself feeling suddenly uneasy, like his being here was somehow wrong, that by interacting with these people as a stranger when he was so much more was somehow violating something.

He took another draw on the cigar and let himself pace, moving about the large, open room, noting the solidness of the floorboards underfoot, the strength of the timbers overhead. The fire Hunter had started crackled low in the hearth.

He stopped at the rifle rack. Guns were something Dusty knew well, and it was obvious his father did, too. Something they had in common.

Dusty wondered now, as he stood in the man’s house, if they would ever meet. Or if they ever should. Maybe this would be enough, simply to see how his father lived, to learn a little about him. Maybe Dusty should simply ride out to Oregon, find Haley, and begin working toward the building of his own ranch. After all, what could he really expect from his father? Love? To be welcomed with open arms into the family? His father did not even know he existed. Regardless of blood ties, he and Dusty were strangers.

Dusty decided to ask himself a question. What did he really want out of this? Why did he really leave Arizona, riding all the way to Nevada, and then on to Montana? To get to know his father? Or, was it more than that? Family, he thought. He wanted family. Not just Sam Patterson and a band of outlaws, or a bunkhouse full of fellow cowhands, but a real family. A place where he could belong. And now that he stood in this house, he found he wanted it more than ever.

He suddenly became aware of a presence behind him. He glanced over one shoulder to find Aunt Ginny standing silently in the kitchen doorway, watching him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dusty said. “I was just looking at the guns.”

“Yes. It’s a fine collection. He has another rifle that he carries with him. I believe he calls it a ‘Sharps,’ though I am no expert in guns.”

“A Sharps? I’ve seen a short-barreled carbine. The Union cavalry carried them in the late war, or so I’ve heard. And there’s the longer Buffalo rifle.”

“I wouldn’t know one from another, but I believe I’ve heard the term ‘buffalo rifle’ or ‘buffalo gun’ applied to his rifle.”

“A Sharps can hold only one shot.” He knit his brow a little as a question formed. “I wonder why he would carry one when he has these fine Winchesters here that hold twelve shots each?”

She was looking at him curiously. Dusty thought he saw a twinkle in her eye, almost a suppressed smile, like she knew something she was not divulging. “You tell me.”

“Well,” he said, thinking aloud. “A Sharps is one of the best guns for accuracy and distance, and it isn’t going to jam like a repeater. And if you’re a good shot, one bullet is all you should need.”

She gave a sort of half nod, half shrug. “It does seem I’ve heard him mention that line of thought one or twice.”

Dusty turned to look back at the rifle rack. He didn’t really think about it at first, but an old muzzle-loading mountain rifle like a Hawken was an odd thing to have, considering repeating rifles had been in existence for almost thirty years. But he also knew the answer.

He said, “That’s why he has that old Hawken. He used that before he had the Sharps, even though there were more modern repeating rifles available.”

“That was the rifle he carried when I first met him, twenty years ago. Mister Johnson claims to have seen him bring down an elk at two hundred yards with that rifle.”

Dusty’s brows rose skeptically. “That would be quite a shot.”

“I’ve seen him do some pretty fantastic shooting.”

“Do you think it would be all right if I looked at it? I mean, I’ve never actually seen a Hawken up close.”

“I think it would be all right.”

Dusty set his cigar in a small silver ash tray on a corner table, and gently lifted the muzzle-loader from the rack. The stock bore scratches, and the finish was now worn away in spots along the barrel. Dusty checked the percussion nipple quickly to make certain there was no cap in place and the gun wouldn’t fire - simple gun safety he had learned from Patterson-then he brought the rifle to his shoulder and sighted in on an imaginary target.

Bree glanced out from the kitchen, then with alarm hurried into the dining room. “Aunt Ginny! That’s one of Pa’s favorite guns. He doesn’t let just anyone touch it.”

Aunt Ginny shot her a glance, gaze steely and firm, leveled at her from over the rims of her spectacles. It stopped Bree as abruptly as if she had been given a command. Then, Aunt Ginny said, conversationally, “I don’t think he would mind this time.”

Bree’s mouth had dropped open, and she stared at her aunt with bewilderment. Not just anyone was allowed to touch Pa’s guns without his say-so. Certainly not a stranger. You never know when you might have to depend on your gun to save your life, he would say. They need to be in perfect operating condition, and he felt he was the best judge of what perfect-operating-condition