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

Johnny. Bree was there, and Ginny came in with the bottle of whiskey, and she and Bree cleaned Johnny’s wounds with it. Johnny hadn’t even flinched once. That was an indication of just how bad Johnny was hurt.

Zack sat outside in silence, along with Josh and Hunter. Crickets were chirping away in the night. A whippoorwill gave a call from somewhere out in the dark woods. The smell of gunsmoke was still in the air. Soon, Zack knew, the eastern sky would begin to lighten to a sort of gray glow with predawn.

“Do you think he’s going to make it, Zack?” Josh asked.

Zack drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If he was any other man, I’d say no. I’ve seen other men die from wounds that aren’t so bad. But I’ve seen your father do some mighty impossible stunts. If anyone has a fighting chance of living through being shot up like that, it’s your Pa.”

Josh nodded, trying to feel convinced, yet not succeeding.

THIRTY

Dusty’s horse was running hard. It was almost as though the animal understood the gravity of the situation. It knew the terrain, and Dusty let it have its head. It had not slowed as it neared the wooden bridge, but rather charged across it, its iron shoes rapping loudly like gunshots against the wooden planks.

The horse ran until it was winded. Dusty reined up, and dismounted and loosened the cinch for a few minutes while he let the horse blow, then he tightened the cinch, stepped back into the saddle, and they were off again.

The horse was starting to show fatigue as they approached the end of the third mile. It slowed to a shambling trot as it carried Dusty up a low hill, and onto a plateau in a gap between two ridges that rimmed this corner of the valley. It was on that plateau that the little town stood.

By using the position of the constellations as a gauge, Dusty figured the time to be somewhere between two and three in the morning. He was not surprised to find the all of the windows in town dark.

He followed along the street, and then left the buildings behind, heading north. A half mile north beyond town, Josh had told him. The trouble was, he had never ridden over this particular stretch of land and in the darkness, he may not be able to see something like a building and might ride on past it.

He rode along, the horse now slowing its pace a bit more. Its coat was lathered from running so hard. He gave the rein a little tug to slow it to a fast walk. It wouldn’t do for the horse to exhaust itself before they could return to the ranch.

They had been gone from the town’s lone street maybe five minutes when he caught a scent of smoke mixed in with the balsam-rich mountain air. Wood smoke. Maybe a stove. The house must be near. And at the brisk walking pace the horse was keeping, Dusty estimated they had covered maybe a half mile. Then, a dog began barking, off to the right of the trail. A watch dog, which meant a house. Thank you, Lord.

Dusty rode until the barking of the dog grew louder. Then, at a point where the barking seemed to be no more than maybe fifty yards away, and off to the dead right, he reined up, and called out, “Hello, the house!”

There was no response, so he called out again.

A window glowed to life, flickering at first, then becoming a steady, pale yellow. Someone had lighted a lamp. He nudged the buckskin forward, aiming at what he thought must be the front yard.

The gelding turned to their left, stepping around something Dusty couldn’t see in the darkness, but he decided to trust the animal’s ability eyesight over his own.

A second window lighted, then a long, thin vertical shaft of light appeared as a door opened.

“Hello, the house!” Dusty repeated again.

“Who’s there?” a voice called out. A man.

“My name’s Dusty,” he said. He wasn’t accustomed to having a full name to give when people asked that question, but then decided he now had one, so he was going to use it. “Dusty McCabe. Johnny’s son. We’ve had a shooting out at the ranch, and he’s been hurt bad.”

“Ah didn’t know Johnny had a son named Dusty.” It was a man’s voice, rich with a Georgian drawl.

“It’s a long story. Aunt Ginny fetched me to bring back someone named Granny Tate.”

A woman spoke. A voice that was old, like cracked leather. “Land sakes, Henry, step aside. Invite the poor boy in.”

“Come on in,” the man said.

Dusty stepped down from the saddle, leaving the rein trailing, or ground-hitched, and approached the house.

The door opened wide, and Dusty stepped into a small kitchen. A stove pipe protruded from one wall, and connected to it was a cast iron stove. A dry sink was built into a cupboard at another wall. The floor was earthen.

The old woman rose only to Dusty’s shoulder in height. She wore a kerchief over white, wiry hair. Her face, a chestnut brown, was deeply lined with years. She squinted up at him through a pair of metal rimmed spectacles, and rested her weight on a cane.

She said, “You say you’re Johnny’s boy?”

“Yes’m.” He had no hat to remove, as he had left it at the ranch.

She gave him a long look, then nodded. “I can see him in you. And you say, he’s been shot?”

Dusty nodded quickly. “Twice.”

“It must be quite bad if Ginny can’t handle it herself.”

She looked to the man. “Henry, go harness up a buckboard. Be quick about it.”

Within five minutes, a team was hitched to the wagon, and Dusty was on his way to the McCabe ranch, with Granny Tate at his side. Dusty sat on the hard, wooden seat, holding the reins between the middle and ring fingers of each hand as the wagon creaked and bumped its way along