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

a quarter mile dead ahead, the trail leading to McCabe Town would cross a wooden bridge that was mounted over a stream thirty feet wide, and maybe a foot or two deep. Riders would not want to chance cutting through the stream in the darkness, with slippery stones, and mud potentially deep enough for a horse’s hoof to sink into. And it was unlikely they would want to cross the bridge, which would be all too visible from the front porch once the moon rose, and the clatter of horse hooves on the wooden planks would carry in the night air.

Dusty was trying to look at the situation from the point of view of a raider. An experienced raider would scout the area from one end to the other, and would know a surprise attack from the direction of the bridge would be impossible. He would then consider working his way around to the south, and come in from behind. So, the woods behind the house were Dusty’s next destination.

He crossed behind the stable, then turned to follow the wall along to the back door of the house. He raised a fist and gave the kitchen door three quick raps. After a moment, he heard Hunter’s voice through the door. “That you, Dusty?”

“Yeah. Keep this door barred, and turn out the kitchen lamp.”

Directly behind the house was a meadow in which the remuda grazed, and just beyond it was the tree line. However, the woods swung much closer to the house on the east side, coming within fifty yards. Dusty started for those woods, to learn how well he thought a group of riders might be able to maneuver through.

Where the woods covering the ridges were pine, with little underbrush and enough room between each tree for a horse to easily pass through, Dusty found those immediately east of the house to be a tangled bramble of alder and ash, with thorn bushes that caught his clothing and slapped him in the face, or scratched the back of each hand. Underfoot were dried leaves that crunched with each step. He had gone no more than ten yards into these tangled woods when he decided that for a man to pass through here, he would need to bring a stick to knock down a path. Bringing a horse through here would be impossible, especially after dark. Dusty was even more impressed by his father’s choice of a location for his home.

Dusty returned to the house for a quick cup of coffee, and for some last minute instructions, should shooting start, though he doubted it would tonight. The house was too strategically located for a surprise attack to be mounted easily, and the raiders hadn’t been in the area long enough for the advanced scouting that would be necessary.

He asked what instructions McCabe usually gave for Miss Brackston and Bree should trouble like this arise.

“There’s a root cellar under the kitchen floor,” Miss Brackston said. “With a trap door. He built the hinges on the underside, so the door wouldn’t be visible from the top side.”

A man after my own heart, Dusty thought. “Well, at the first sound of gunfire, I want the two of you down there. Don’t come up until one of us comes to get you.”

To Hunter and Fred, he said, “These riders will be carrying torches. It helps to scare folks, and adds to the confusion. They also need the torches to see by. Don’t let the torches shake you. They’ll also probably be firing guns as they ride, and might be screaming, something like the old rebel yell. Don’t let any of it get to you. Just stay calm, and aim just below the flare of the torches. The riders will be wide-open targets as they approach this place. You’ll both be upstairs, one of the front side, the other toward the rear. I’ll be outside. If I see them coming, I’ll fire one shot. You both get to the windows, and as soon as they’re in range, start picking them off.”

Hunter chuckled. “You make it sound like it’ll be easy.”

“It will be, if we keep our heads about us.”

With his rifle cradled under one arm and a cup of coffee in his hand, Dusty returned to the front porch. In the distance, in the ridges to the south, there was now the glow of a large campfire.

The rocking chair Aunt Ginny had used earlier on the porch was now empty, and the thought of it struck him as inviting. He had been awake since before sunrise, and he would guess it was now close to midnight, and he had many more hours to go before he could give in to sleep. But comfort can lull you, and he needed to have his senses sharp, so he remained on his feet, sipping coffee, and looking toward the orange glow on the ridge.

The door behind him, already hanging ajar, swung open a bit more, and Aunt Ginny stepped out, her steps falling lightly on the weathered boards of the porch. She stopped at his side, looking off toward the campfire. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

He shook his head, but realized she would not be able to see the motion in the darkness, so he added, “No, ma’am. I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.”

He took another sip of coffee. “As long as that campfire is going, that means they’re probably up there, on the ridge. Once that campfire goes out, that’s when we’ll be in trouble.”

THIRTEEN

Hunter stretched on the sofa in front of the hearth, his head sinking into a pillow, and a quilt pulled to his chin. A fire in the hearth would be nice, he thought, as the night air was a bit nippy, but Dusty had insisted they keep the house dark. Despite how cold he was, he knew the boy was right.

Hunter was too large for the sofa, his feet hanging awkwardly over one arm. He imagined Dusty would fit much more