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

went up another sandy slope. After a short time, the earth ahead suddenly seemed to fall away. At the base of the decline was a scattering of buildings. Single-level structures mostly, with walls of gray, sunbeaten planks nailed upright.

This must be Baker’s Crossing, he thought. Not too damned impressive looking.

One building stood two floors high, with a rickety looking balcony stretching the length of the second floor. Anyone stepping on that, Dusty thought, would probably soon find themselves at ground level. Even from this distance, he could make out the big, black letters painted on a sign mounted on the balcony railing. SALOON. This building would be his destination.

He amended that. His second destination, as his gaze drifted to the center of the town’s lone street, and the well house standing there. An iron pump was mounted on its side. His throat was dry, and he knew his horse could use the water, and his canteens were again empty.

Dusty touched his horse’s ribs with his bootheels, and they started down the gravely decline. Once at the base of the decline, the horse quickened its pace, as it had the day before when it smelled water at the way station.

Dusty reined up at the well, dismounted, and he let the horse push its muzzle into the trough.

A tin cup rested on the edge of the trough. Dusty filled it from the iron pump, and poured the water down his throat so quickly most of it spilled down over his chin and onto the front of his shirt. Dear God, the water was cold. Wet. Refreshing, all the way down. It struck his stomach a little heavily, but he scarcely noticed.

He had not been anticipated the water being this fresh. In dry country, what little water there was often ran close to the surface, tasting like it had back at the way station. He refilled the cup.

After his thirst had become but a memory, and his horse had as much water as Dusty dared allow it, he led the horse across to the saloon. He gave one rein a couple turns about a hitching rail, then stepped up to the boardwalk and pushed through a pair of batwing doors. One hinge squeaked from a lack of grease.

The room was deserted, except for a man behind a bar who was idly wiping dust from shot glasses and mugs. A dozen tables were scattered about, chairs turned upside down and mounted on them. At the far wall, a ramshackle flight of wooden stairs climbed to the second floor.

Dusty was tired. His back ached because of all the miles he had covered in the saddle between the way station and here, and his backside felt almost blistered. Yet, anticipation was rising within him. This could be where he would meet his mother. Finally. To, maybe, get to know her, find out what she was like. Of course, there also the chance she was not here at all. Maybe the old red-faced barkeep further back on the trail was wrong. Maybe no one here had ever even heard of a Rose Callahan. Then, what would he do? Where would he go?

Either way, he realized his journey was over. First, he would return to that little way station miles behind him on the trail, and to Haley. And then, it would be back to Arizona, where he would hit up Mister Cantrell for another job. He would then maybe start saving his money. Maybe start up a small cattle outfit of his own in a few years. Make a life for himself. And he would try to put the questions of his past to rest.

He had a quick flickering of an image in his mind - a little cattle spread he would operate himself, and of Haley waiting for him at the house when he returned each night. But he pushed that image away. It was way too soon for him to be having such thoughts.

The barkeep was a man of maybe fifty, with thinning hair, but his face was decorated with bushy sideburns showing flecks of silver. He wore a white shirt and a checkered vest, and an apron was tied about his middle. He looked at Dusty from under bushy brows.

“What can I do for you, son?” he said.

“You open for business?”

He shrugged. “It’s early, but what the hell. What can I get you?”

Though Dusty had settled his thirst outside, he now thought a beer might taste good. And it gave him a moment more to procrastinate before asking the question that might end his long ride in disappointment.

“I’ll have a beer.”

“I don’t serve boys under twenty-one. How old are you, son?”

Dusty looked at him coolly, annoyance rising inside him. He was tired to the bone, and if he felt like a beer, then he was damned well going to have one. “I’m old enough to have a beer without no sass from you.”

The bartender grabbed a mug, and filled it from one of the tapped kegs that were mounted horizontally behind the bar. He was grinning, apparently finding something amusing about the situation. Or about Dusty. Dusty was filled with the gumption and spine that comes with being twenty, but he was too tired at the moment to take offense at being the source of anyone’s amusement.

The barkeep said, “You got money to pay for this?”

Dusty reached into the pocket of his levis. He had seen a coin in there a few days earlier. He found it, a nickel, and dropped it to the bar. “There you go. All the money I have to my name.”

“You’re life savings, huh?” the barkeep snorted a chuckle. “That should cover it.”

The barkeep set the mug on the bar before Dusty. “I hope you enjoy it, son, because with no more money, you won’t be having a second one.”

Dusty tipped the mug, pouring down a few gulps. Then he dragged the back of one buckskin sleeve across his mouth.

He found the barkeep was staring at him.

Dusty said, “You