The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) by Brad Dennison (books that read to you .txt) 📕

Bozeman. But last I knew, there was a mining camp between here and there.”

The tracks of the raiders seemed to disappear on the stage road, because the dirt was so hard packed.

“I guess we can ride along the trail a ways,” Dusty said. “See if they turned off anywhere.”

They rode in silence for a stretch. Dusty tossed a glance toward Josh, wondering at the depth of this newly revealed side of his brother. He would have guessed, by Josh’s bravado and posturing, that his interests ran no deeper than gulping mugs of beer at Hunter’s, getting into a brawl, and occasionally having a night with one of Alisha Summers’ girls.

Dusty said, “You know, you’re not an easy guy to like, but maybe Aunt Ginny was right. You are worth getting to know.”

Josh frowned a bit. “I don’t know if that was a compliment, or if I should be offended.”

Dusty gave a half smirk. “Maybe a little bit of both. Come on, let’s ride.”

THIRTY-FOUR

The town was called Midas, after the name of a local mine, the shafts of which spider-webbed their through a nearby ridge. Josh and Dusty let their horses move along at a loping walk. Either side of the street was lined with canvas tents, each serving as a house for a miner and his family. Children ran and played, splashing through the muddy streets. Women worked scrubbing laundry against washboards or hanging wet clothes on a line, the face of each woman lined beyond her years from a life of too much hard work.

“Don’t matter where you are,” Josh said. “California, Colorado, or here. Mining towns all look the same.”

“I didn’t get to see too many down in Arizona and New Mexico Territory,” Dusty said. “Mostly ranching and farming down there. After seeing this, I count myself lucky.”

“Maybe we should stop and ask some questions. The riders didn’t seem to turn off the trail at all, which means they must have ridden through here. Maybe someone saw them. Hell, maybe they’re here right now.”

“There must be a saloon in this town.”

“There is in most towns.”

“Maybe we could stop there and ask some questions. Saloons are always the best clearing house for information. And I could use a beer to wash down some of this trail dust.”

Josh and Dusty reined up before the only building made of wood, though it appeared to have been slapped together hastily, with an uneven roof line, a door jamb that was a full inch lower on one side than the other, and gaps between some of the boards on the wall large enough for a man to push a finger through. Painted above the doorway in black letters was PICK & SHOVEL SALOON.

Compared to the brightness of the cloudless sky outside, they found the barroom dim, lighted only by two windows at the front wall and a coal lamp mounted behind the bar. The lamp emitted a foul smelling smoke, moreso than most such lamps. A man with a long, snarled beard falling over the front of a dirty undershirt stood behind the bar. Suspenders were strapped over each of his shoulders, and a soot and grease stained apron was tied about his round belly.

“What can I get for you gents?” he asked in a thin and raspy voice, through a toothless smile.

“Beer’s fine for me,” Josh said, and looked to Dusty.

“Make that two,” Dusty said.

“Got no beer. Waiting for the afternoon stage.”

“Then, make it whiskey, I guess.”

“Two whiskeys it is,” the barkeep said. He placed two glasses on a plank that stood on two upended beer kegs, which passed for a bar, and dumped brownish liquid into them from an unlabeled bottle.

Josh counted eight empty tables filling the small barroom floor. The only other occupant of the place was a saloon woman standing at the bar. She looked like she was about Josh’s age, maybe a little older. It was difficult to gauge because of the war paint caked on her face. Her lips were an unnatural red, her face a chalky white, and her cheekbones were painted a rosy hue. Her brows were dark and plucked pencil thin, and some sort of shade of blue had been plastered over her eyelids. Her hair was an odd artificial sort of platinum color. Not the kind of woman Aunt Ginny would invite to a quilting bee.

Dusty sampled his drink, and held back a grimace. If he should ask, the barkeep would probably claim this was sour mash, but Dusty would have bet it was rubbing alcohol, with a touch of kerosene to give it a kick. He decided not to ask, because he and Josh were here to pursue more important questions, and a man standing accused of selling rubbing alcohol for whiskey would not be as willing to volunteer answers.

It was Josh who spoke first. “I suppose you see just about everybody who passes through.”

The snarled beard bobbed up and down. “Yessir. Thet I do.”

“You didn’t happen to see a group of riders come through town three or four days ago, did you?”

The barkeep’s glance darted to the girl, then back again. So quick, Dusty would have missed if it he had but blinked. But he did not miss it.

“What kind of riders?” the old man asked casually. He was trying very hard to seem casual.

“They weren’t drifters,” Dusty said. “They would have been wearing guns like they knew how to use them. And they would have looked like they’ve been on the trail a few days.”

“Sort of like you boys.”

Josh glanced at Dusty. He was not sure what to make of the comparison.

Josh took a sip of the whiskey. Dusty could see he was doing his best to hold back a grimace, also.

“These boys might have had a woman with them, too,” Josh said, thinking of the smallish shoe print that had been found among the tracks made by the raiders. “Any chance they could have stopped here?”

The barkeep shook his head. “Ore wagons and stage coaches have been