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

comfortably. Dusty was due to come off duty in a while. Dusty had begun the night, then Hunter spelled him, followed by Fred, and then Dusty again, each in two-hour increments. It would be Hunter’s turn again, soon.

Damn, but it was cold. This reminded Hunter of riding herd on cold nights, or riding about with the line riders on bone chilling wintry days. Part of the reason why he now ran a saloon. Of course, while working with the line riders, you got to sleep in a line cabin with an iron stove that would keep the place comfortably warm.

An iron stove. Aunt Ginny had one in the kitchen. He could go in there and start a small fire in the stove, and Dusty would have nothing to complain about.

He knew he should stop thinking about lighting a fire in the stove and get to sleep. He was not a battle-hardened war veteran, but he had been in a few gun battles, enough to know you grab sleep when you can because you need your reflexes as sharp as possible. Yet, how could he sleep on this blasted sofa? With his legs elevated and his feet hanging out over the sofa arms, his toes were starting to go to sleep.

He kicked the quilt away with frustration, and swung his feet onto the floor. He would pace about and hopefully drive some life back into his toes. Then, he would give up on the idea of getting some sleep tonight and go into the kitchen and build a fire.

He then noticed it was no longer inky black outside with but a touch of pale moonlight, as it had been when he first lied down. It was now a deep gray, like it gets when dawn is approaching. What time was it, anyhow? And why hadn’t Dusty come and gotten him when his shift was over? Was something wrong?

Hunter drew his revolver, checking by touch in the darkness of the room to make certain each percussion cap was in place. Then, he hurried across the floor to the door, which was still ajar.

He stepped out. “Dusty?”

“Riders approaching,” Dusty said. He was standing on the porch in front of the railing, gripping his rifle with his right hand by the action, his finger curled about the trigger, and the forestock held in his left hand, barrel aiming upward, ready to be snapped downward for a shot.

Dusty didn’t turn his head to face Hunter. Hunter realized Dusty was remaining motionless, because in the dim light of predawn, detail wouldn’t be easily seen from a distance but motion might be briefly visible. Hunter remained in the doorway, following Dusty’s example.

“They approached from across the valley,” Dusty continued. “Odd, because the angle is all wrong if they were coming from that camp off in the hills.”

Each man standing his turn on guard duty had observed the campfire burning steadily, then only after about four in the morning had it begun to grow a bit dim, though never going completely out. On a chilly night like this, whoever was up there was feeding the fire occasionally to keep it going.

“Your shift ended hours ago,” Hunter said. “Why didn’t you come and get me?”

“I figured you needed the sleep.”

“I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep at all, until I woke up and noticed how light the sky was getting.”

“You were sure sawin’ ‘em off in there. I figured they must have heard you clear up to that camp.”

“Very funny.”

They heard a clatter of hooves on the wooden bridge. “A quarter mile away,” Hunter said. “When did you first become aware of those riders coming? How far away were they?”

“Maybe a mile. I was staking out a perimeter, and was down near the bridge when I first became aware of something approaching. More of a feeling, than anything else. Then the crickets all stopped chirping, and then after a time, as the sky was growing lighter, I could see an occasional hint of motion out there on the valley floor. So I ran like hell back here to the porch.”

“I’d swear, Dusty, you must be half Apache.”

“Ute,” Dusty said, seriously.

The riders seemed to be coming at a shambling trot, but not a gallop, as attacking raiders might. And they carried no torches. Hunter thought of going in to wake up Fred, who was upstairs in the front bedroom, when they heard Fred’s Winchester action jack open and shut from above. The window was apparently open, and Fred was awake and ready. Probably heard the riders cross the bridge.

“Should I go get Aunt Ginny and Bree, and tell ‘em to get down in the cellar?” Hunter asked.

“No,” Dusty said. “I don’t think these are raiders.”

Then Dusty turned to him. “They’re riding up to the house. You stand here and face ‘em. I’ll be off to the side. If they do mean trouble, with you here, me off at their side and Fred upstairs, we’ll catch ‘em in a three-way crossfire.”

“You’ll be wide open out there. In fact, I will be up here, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Dusty was already vaulting over the porch railing to the ground below. “They won’t see Fred and me until it’s too late. They won’t have a chance.”

Damn, Hunter thought. Dusty was simply too good at this, and it was making Hunter feel a little unnerved. He had met few others who were this good at improvised warfare. Johnny McCabe and Zack Johnson were two of them. Yet, like them, Dusty didn’t seem to be one who would enjoy killing.

Hunter could see the riders now, clearly in the growing light of dawn. All but the brightest stars had now disappeared overhead. Dusty had also disappeared, somehow melting into the grayness of the early morning light.

Four riders, Hunter could count, as they approached the front porch. They were now near enough for him to hear the drumming of their hooves on the sod.

Once they were maybe fifty yards from the porch, Hunter roared, “Rein up where you are,