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

and Hunter was a good man. But now he had to decide whether he was going to ride out to the ranch and introduce himself to the man who was his father, or simply saddle up and ride away.

Once the stage coach passengers had eaten and the dishes cleaned up, and there would be no more cooking chores for the rest of the day, Dusty poured a cold beer and took to the chair on the boardwalk out front, and leaned his Spencer rifle against the wall. He tipped the chair back, took a sip from his mug, and let the cool wind rushing down from the ridge wash over him, bringing with it a faint scent of balsam. He was wearing the white shirt he had bought at Franklin’s, and a new pair of levis.

He would miss this place. He had liked Arizona, but it was not like this. The Cantrell ranch house was on a grassy plateau with the wooded foothills of the Sierra Nevadas as a back drop. The elevation was very high, the air crisp and clean, and he liked it. But not like this.

Yet, to stay would be to confront the man who was his father, and he found himself afraid. Afraid of being turned away. Afraid the emptiness he had endured as a child who belonged nowhere would come back.

He took another sip of beer, and noticed a man approaching, crossing the muddy street. It was Franklin, a small burlap sack bundled under one arm.

“Franklin,” Dusty said, nodding his head in greeting.

“Dusty. Just the man I want to see.” He stepped up onto the board walk, mud that had caked to his shoes dropping in clumps. And to think Dusty had swept this walk clean just this morning. Thank you, Franklin.

Dusty had never seen a town with a main street that wasn’t muddy. No matter how hot and dry the climate might be. Arizona, Texas, you name it. Between over-flowing water troughs, wash basins and chamber pots being emptied out side windows, horses using the very ground they walk on as an outhouse, and the occasional rain that would stir all of this to life in a foul smelling soup, the streets were generally muddy enough to slime up the soles of your boots. Give the street a full day of rain, and you would sink to your ankles in it.

Dusty said, “There’s only one chair out here. I can fetch you another.”

“No, that’s all right,” Franklin said. “I have to get back to the store. I can only be gone a minute.”

Dusty nodded, waiting for whatever it was Franklin had to say. Dusty took a sip of beer.

Franklin said, “This is a small town, Dusty. Small, but still in its infancy. We can’t afford a town marshal. We don’t even have the funds to erect a jail. In fact, we don’t have any funds at all. No town government to speak of. Just Hunter and me and a few others getting together once in a while to discuss civic matters. But well, with good citizens like you, Hunter, and the McCabes around, and Zack Johnson down the stretch, well, we all feel a little safer.”

Down-the-stretch was the way locals referred to Zack Johnson’s end of the valley, Dusty had learned. The McCabe Gap end was, in turn, up-the-stretch.

Dusty was not sure where Franklin was going with any of this, but he did not really care. After being on his feet all morning, in tight riding boots that pinched his toes, it felt damned good to sit and rock back, take an occasional mouthful of cold beer, and enjoy the breeze from the ridge.

He took another gulp while Franklin continued. “Especially the way you took care of things when those mysterious riders were about. Rode right out there, at your own risk and without even being asked, to make certain they posed no danger to the town, then riding out to the McCabe Ranch to make certain Miss Ginny and Miss Bree were safe until their men folk could return.”

Okay. Enough. “Mister Franklin, what are you getting’ at?”

“Well, I’d like you to have this back.” He opened the burlap sack and pulled out the gunbelt and Colt Peacemaker Dusty had traded in for the Spencer rifle.

“I can’t pay you. And I don’t want to trade back my rifle.”

“I’m not asking for payment.”

Dusty gave his head a single slow shake. “I can’t accept charity.”

“It’s not charity, my boy. Think of it as payment. You took care of things the way a lawman would. And we’d all feel safer if you had the proper tools with you.”

Dusty sighed. This bore the sound of commitment. “Look, I don’t even know if I’m going to be staying on much longer.”

“The gun’s yours, Dusty. Take it.” He held it out to him. “Take it as payment for services rendered. If you decide to stay – and I hope you do – then we’ll work out something as far as lodging that will be a little more appealing than sleeping on a pile of hay at the livery. I’ll make certain you have all of the ammunition and any other supplies you may need. And of course, haircuts and baths, all free of charge. At least consider it.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all we ask.”

Dusty took the gunbelt, and Franklin returned across the muddy street and down the boardwalk to his store.

Goddam. These people were starting to look at him as some sort of benefactor. An unofficial town marshal. This created a feeling of being tied to the area. He already owed money to Hunter for all of the items he had put on credit at Franklin’s. If he left now and headed off to Oregon, he would be sending money to Hunter for months. And now, this.

He sat, looking off at the ridge line visible from the front of the saloon. It looked almost velvety green from this distance. As he finished his beer, a