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

but you’re a glutton for punishment,” Josh muttered, then he let Rabbit have his head again, and they were off.

Two miles later, Josh topped a low rise, and beyond the base of the hill was a stream, and a couple hundred yards further on, the line camp.

Pa and Zack had built the cabin by cleaning away part of a low hill with shovels, and building a sort of dug-out that had three walls made of pine logs. The exposed earth of the hillside served as the back wall. The roof was made of sod, and grass grew on it. A stove protruded through a hole in one wall.

A stable, also made of pine logs, stood nearby, and horses milled about within the corral.

Josh dismounted far enough away to be beyond rifle range, ground-hitched Rabbit, then started down the hill afoot, his pistol drawn.

Chances were that none of the men stealing cattle would be at the cabin, but Josh did not want to take chances. He ran in a zig-zagging pattern, so anyone trying to draw a bead on him with a rifle from a cabin window would not have a steady target.

He stopped behind a short pine, waited a moment, then sprinted toward an outcropping of bedrock, diving behind its cover, his hat flying away behind him. There was no gunfire from the cabin.

He spotted a juniper atop a small hump of earth only ten yards from the corral. He burst from the cover of the rock, again weaving as he ran, bracing himself for gunfire at any moment. He dove, and came to a rolling stop behind the hump of earth. Still no gunfire.

He ran to the corral fence, and he glanced at the horses. All bearing the brand of the Circle M. It seemed to him if raiders had killed Reno and the boys, they would have taken the horses.

Josh now sprinted toward the cabin, covering the remaining distance in a few seconds, and came to a sliding stop before the door. He cocked his revolver, raised one foot and drove the door open. He burst in, ready to shoot at any gun barrels that might be aimed at him.

He found the cabin deserted. Three of the six bunks showed signs of having been slept in. Dishes crusty with dried food were stacked on an open shelf, and a coffee pot stood on the stove. On a table was an empty whiskey bottle.

Josh touched the side of the stove and found it warm. Men had been here not long ago. There was no sign that a fight had taken place. A couple Winchesters rested against a bunk, which meant the men were not expecting trouble.

Josh’s eyes went again to the bottle on the table. He then noticed two others rolling under one of the bunks, and began to realize the cattle were being taken from this range with no opposition.

Apparently Reno was back to his old ways.

Josh eased the hammer of his revolver back into its neutral position, and slid the gun back into his holster. Then, he strode from the cabin, anger rising within him, enough that he could not manage even a chuckle at how foolish he must have looked, diving from one source of cover to the next. He snatched his hat from where it had tumbled to the grass.

He led Rabbit to the corral. The horse was winded, and needed rest. Within minutes, a fresh mount was saddled. Josh had no way of knowing which direction Reno and the boys might have ridden away in, so he rode in a wide circle about the cabin, cutting for sign. He found what he had expected, a clear trail made as the men rode to and from the cabin. Some hoof prints were fresher than others, one set of tracks looking like it might have been made no earlier than this morning. Three horses, traveling east at a shambling trot.

Josh followed these tracks through a grove of tall pines, then across a flat grassy expanse, and up an incline.

He heard the sound of a pistol shot, small in the distance, brought to him on the wind. He nudged the horse’s ribs with his heels, and the animal broke into a gallop. Again, he thought a rifle would have been handy; two were at the cabin, but he had stormed away in such an angry huff he had left them both leaning against the bunks.

He heard more gunshots. They were evenly spaced, not in a random sort of staccato rhythm that might indicate a gun battle. There was one gun only, being fired slowly but repeatedly. Then there would be a pause, before the firing would begin again. It reminded Josh of the sound of target practice, the hesitations being the time needed to reload.

When he had put a half mile behind him, he topped out on a low rise, and below was a small ravine which saw plenty of water during the spring run-off. Junipers and short pines grew, and sitting with his back against one pine was Reno, tipping a bottle, his adam’s apple bobbing as he chugged its contents. Tarley was standing, aiming his pistol toward a pine at the far side of the ravine, squeezing off shots. Occasionally his aim would be true and a branch would break free and fall, or a strip of bark would fly away. The third man, Whitey, was standing idly by while Tarley emptied his pistol at the tree.

Six shots. Two tree branches and a piece of bark. Tarley then flipped open the loading gate and dropped the empties from his revolver. That Tarley considered himself a fair hand with a gun was obvious; he wore his holster low on his leg, like Josh and Pa. The difference was that Josh, like Pa, wanted his pistol within easy reach, while men like Tarley wore their gun as such simply for show. A man who knew anything about shooting a pistol would not be wasting his