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

shape up ahead and off to one side, dancing in the haze. He was not about to get his hopes up. Could be anything, he knew. A large rock. Even just a trick the sunlight was playing on his eyes.

Suddenly, his horse began increasing its pace, like a thirsty horse will do when it smells water. Whatever it was ahead, apparently water was near, or at least the horse thought so. Dusty gave the horse its head, and held on for the ride.

As they drew closer, the shape began to divide into two shapes, a house and a barn, he realized, shimmering in a line of heat waves rising from the earth. The walls of each structure were made of wood that had been bleached by the sun; any paint or white-wash was long since baked away.

The way station. That old barkeep had been right.

An iron pump stood outside the house, and in a corral behind the barn were eight horses, larger than what you normally strapped a saddle onto. Used for pulling a wagon, which Dusty assumed was probably a stagecoach.

This place was not much to look at. But at the moment, he did not care. His eyes fixed on the water pump, and the water trough it was mounted onto.

Dusty reined up at the trough, giving the reins an extra hard tug to hold his horse in check. His horse danced a bit in protest at being so close to water but denied its much-needed drink, but Dusty held his ground. He was not about to help himself to water without permission from whoever was in the house. Common courtesy aside, such a thing could get you shot.

“Hello, the house!” he called out.

He stepped from the saddle while he waited for an answer.

The horse shifted one hoof impatiently, eyeing the water trough. Dusty’s own throat was raw with thirst. There was no answer from the house.

He decided not to make his horse wait any longer. He let go of the reins, and the buckskin pushed its muzzle into the water.

Dusty decided he could wait no longer, either. A metal dipper rested on the edge of the trough. He grasped it, then jacked the iron handle of the pump until water came gushing out, and filled the dipper. He raised the dipper to his mouth and drained it.

The water was not cold, and tasted a little brackish, as the well was probably not very deep. But hell, it was wet. That was all that really mattered, after fifteen miles of Nevada desert. He refilled the dipper.

“Howdy,” came a voice from the shack.

Dusty turned his gaze in that direction to see a man standing in the doorway. He was taller than Dusty, and almost skeletal thin. His shirt and trousers were tattered and baggy. His jaw was covered with short, stubbly hair. At his right side a revolver rode low. Dusty knew there was only one reason to wear a gun like that - to be within easy reach. A little unusual for a man operating a way station. Most of those Dusty had seen were either wrangler or farmer types. Not that a man who was good with a gun couldn’t operate a way station, but he struck Dusty as looking a little out of place. But Dusty was too thirsty for questions to fully form in his head.

“Sorry to be helping myself,” Dusty said, “but I’ve been on the trail a long time, and I’m mighty dry.”

“Go ahead. The water’s free for the takin’.”

Dusty tipped the dipper and drained it again. He then took the reins of his horse and pulled its muzzle from the water. It was not good to let a thirsty, tired horse have too much water all at once.

“If you got some oats, my horse could sure use some,” Dusty said. “I don’t have any money, but I could do some work in exchange.”

The man shook his head. “Help yourself to the oats. Then come on inside. The woman’s got supper on the stove, and you’re more than welcome to some.”

“Much obliged.”

Dusty led his horse into the barn, and a stall. He loosened the cinch, then slipped off the bridle, and pulled a feed bag over its head.

He left his hat hanging from the saddle horn by the chin strap. He was not one to live with a hat forever on his head like it had grown there, like some cowhands he had known. He liked the feeling of wind in his hair, and the sun on his face.

He stopped at the iron pump for one more dipper of water. Now that he was not as thirsty, he had to admit the water was not very good at all. A strong metallic aftertaste. Not at all like the cold, sweet water from the Cantrell well. He found himself looking forward to returning, moreso than ever, once he was finished here in Nevada. He set the dipper down and continued on to the house.

The door was opened by the thin man, who smiled, revealing a row of blackened teeth. “Come on in, stranger.”

Dusty stepped in, now registering the details he had overlooked earlier. This man had gunfighter stamped on him as surely as if it had been done with a hot iron. Dusty doubted he had ever worked as a hostler. Something about the man’s manner, his stooped shoulders, a slight shuffle to his gait, a smile that was too forced with nothing behind it, told him this man probably did little work, except for maybe back-shooting and cattle rustling.

Seated at the table was another man, shorter than the first and chunkier. His shirt was also tattered, and stained from sweat and an overall lack of washing. Before him on the table was a plate of beans, and he was eagerly diving into them, making slurping sounds that reminded Dusty of a hog devouring slop.

A woman stirred a pile of beans in a skillet, her face flushed from the heat of the stove, considering the