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

He had ridden away from that little way station with no knowledge of his background at all, other than his mother’s name. Now, even though he had not quite met his mother, as she had never gained consciousness, he had been there when she died and he felt she somehow knew he was there. And from Lewis and Annie he had learned much about her. He now also knew his father’s name, and for that matter, his own. Dustin McCabe. He was thinking about maybe adding Callahan as his middle name. Dustin C. McCabe. A name he could sign, like when he was homesteading the land that would be the headquarters for his cattle outfit. The place where he and Haley would raise their children, if they would have him. And he now had a name he could give his children.

The sky was covered with a thin, steely gray overcast as he drew within sight of the way station. The day was hot, but not quite as severe as it had been when he had first ridden to this place. He dismounted in the front yard, and gave the rein a couple of turns about the hitching rail.

The front door opened, and a man stepped out. A little taller than Dusty, with shaggy white hair and a beard. He wore coveralls, and a faded plaid shirt. “Can I help you?”

Haley’s father, apparently.

“Yes, sir. Mister Anderson? I’m Dusty.” He figured she must have told her father about him.

“No, my name’s Timmons. The Andersons pulled out three days ago.”

“Pulled out?”

“Yeah. Anderson - he quit his job. He and his daughter hopped the stage east, and were gone. Me, I’m a shotgun rider for the stage line. I’m runnin’ the station until they find someone.”

Gone? Old man Anderson must have been really shaken by what had happened to his daughter while he was away. But was he taking her to Oregon to farm, as was his original plan, or was he taking her back east? Either way, he would have taken the eastbound stage.

“Hey,” the old man said. “Did you say your name was ‘Dusty?’”

Dusty nodded.

“I got something in here for you. Come on in.”

Dusty followed the man into the building. Timmons took an envelope from the table and handed it to him. Written on the front of the envelope was the word Dusty, in a flowing hand.

“It’s from Miss Anderson,” the old man said.

Dusty nodded. “Thanks.”

“Well? You gonna open it?”

Dusty wanted to read it in private. He tucked it into a pocket in the front of his buckskin shirt. “Later. Right now, I need some water and oats for my horse.”

“Water’s out front. Oats are in the barn. Help yourself.”

When his horse was comfortable in a stall with a feedbag over its head, Dusty sat on the hay strewn floor, his back against the stable wall, his hat resting on the floor beside him, and pulled the envelope from his shirt.

Sam Patterson had insisted he learn how to read. “A man can’t get nowhere in life without knowing how to read and write.”

It turned out Sam had been a bank teller before becoming a guerrilla raider during the War. He was an educated man, and though he had left that life behind him, his education still remained. It no longer showed in the way he spoke, but it was still there, lying in the back reaches of his mind. He insisted on sharing it with Dusty. There were no text books to use, but using charcoal on the flat side of a board, and sometimes simply a stick in the dirt, Sam Patterson taught the orphan kid named Dusty how to read and write.

Dusty tore open the envelope. Haley had flowing, beautiful penmanship. She was as skilled and artful with a quill pen as he was with a pistol. He was not surprised.

“My Dearest Dusty,” it began. “I know not if you will ever return to the way station, and as such receive this letter. I knew you for only one night, but it was the grandest night of my life, and I feel like I have known you forever. This said, I hope you will return, and find this letter.

“I told my father about how you saved me. I told him you slept in the barn. Forgive me the lie for the sake of discretion. But my father is no fool, he knows the ways of the world, and he knows I have come to care for you deeply in the short time I have known you.”

She did not use the word love. Dusty found himself smiling.

“My father said that he will be forever grateful to you, and hopes to one day meet you, but he cannot bear to remain at this way station a moment longer. Every moment here is one moment longer of subjecting me to danger, he said. Even had he been home when those men rode in, he would have been helpless to stop them.”

She used words well, he noticed. He liked that.

“We are bound for Oregon in the morning. We have not had the time to save the money he had wanted, but he does not care. We will settle in, probably homestead, get a cabin up before winter, and put in a crop of alfalfa.

“I do hope you come searching for me, Dusty. I cannot bear another day without you. You did not say how you feel about me, but I believe I saw it in your eyes, and felt it in your touch. I do so hope you will come to Oregon.”

She signed it, “Yours forever, Haley.”

Yours forever. He liked that. He really liked that.

He figured if he lit out now, riding hard, he would be able to overtake them. But what about Montana?

He had thought his quest would end once he found Rose Callahan, but in fact it had only begun. Could he abandon it now? He had never dared even hope that he would be able to learn his father’s name,