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

at sixty-six, had somehow managed to avoid developing that matronly, portly figure that plagued so many women on the late side of middle age. Her hair was steel gray with a streak of white at each temple, and usually tied back in a bun. Her eyes were blue, with lines beginning at each corner and gently trailing away. Perched upon her nose were tiny, metal-rimmed spectacles.

She now gazed at Josh over the top of those spectacles. “I know you have a temper, Joshua. Are you absolutely certain you gave those men every chance to get onto their horses and join you in rounding up those strays?”

“Yes’m. I surely did. I gave them every chance. Firing ‘em was the last thing I wanted to do. Reno is a top hand when he ain’t drinkin’.”

“Isn’t drinking.”

“Yes’m. Isn’t drinkin’. It’s gonna be almighty hard to replace him. Cowhands like him don’t come along every day.”

“Well, when your father comes back, he can figure out what to do.”

“I don’t mean no disrespect, ma’am, but by the time he comes home, I intend to have hired two or three new hands, and to have them cows all rounded up.”

“Those cows.”

“Yes’m.”

The following afternoon was barely an hour old when Josh walked out to the meadow and dropped a loop over the head of a buckskin gelding. He had decided not to ride Rabbit into town, as the horse had covered a lot of miles the previous day, and Josh intended to be riding Rabbit when he returned to the line cabin in the morning. The mustang had two white stockings and a splash of white on its nose, and while it could not run as fast or as long as Rabbit – few horses could – it was a good cutting horse. Josh had used it before on roundups, and thought this might be a good horse to bring along as an extra mount when he returned to the line camp.

He had thought of giving the horse a name, like Buckskin, but then Bree might decide to override it with something cutesy, like she had with Rabbit. There was something perverse about his sister’s sense of humor, he thought.

He led the horse back to the corral, where he slipped a bridle over the buckskin’s head, then dropped a blanket onto its back, followed by his black leather saddle. Fred Mitchum walked up while Josh was tightening the cinch.

“Saddling’ up a little early, aren’t you? The Saturday evening’ crowd isn’t due for hours. You won’t find anyone worth hiring until then.”

Saturday night was the traditional night for a cowboy to howl. Cattle ranches paid once monthly, and on those nights, the town really caught fire. But even on these Saturday nights between paydays, many of the local cowhands would drift in, have a few drinks at Hunter’s, play some faro, and some might wander down to Miss Summers’ establishment.

Cowhands were a restless lot, especially the younger ones, never remaining with one employer long. Josh was sure he would be able to find a couple, maybe three, willing to sign onto the McCabe payroll and join him for a week of hard riding at the line shack, rounding up strays and patrolling the perimeter to make certain those riders didn’t return.

“I thought I might ride in a little early,” Josh said to Fred. “A cold beer just might hit the spot.”

Mitchum gave a chuckle. “It does sound appetizing’, I’ve got to admit.”

At forty-five, Mitchum’s face was lined beyond its years, like that of every man who had lived most of his life outdoors. Fred was thin, his shirt and coveralls bagging on him, but despite his spindly appearance, there was strength in his back, which became evident when he would heft a saddle to his shoulder with more ease than Josh could muster.

“Saddle up and ride in with me,” Josh suggested.

Fred shook his head. “I’ll be in later. Got me some things to finish up here, first.”

Josh nodded. He pushed a foot into a stirrup and swung into the saddle. “See you in town, then.”

With his stetson resting atop his yellow hair and his Navy Colt at his side, Josh turned the cutting horse through the open corral door and down a wagon trail that led to town.

Josh admired Fred’s dedication to his job. Here it was, Saturday afternoon, a time when most cowhands were having their weekly bath and shave, and thinking about beer or whiskey and possibly spending part of the evening with one of the girls who worked for Alisha Summers, the only businesswoman in town, and whose name when simply mentioned could cause Aunt Ginny to almost growl with anger. And yet he was thinking about work.

Pa had hired Fred specifically because he knew what kind of man Fred was, and Pa wanted a man with that kind of dedication to oversee the Circle M remuda. At most ranches, the wrangler was either a boy breaking into the cattle business but not yet experienced enough to earn his place alongside the cowpunchers, or an older cowhand no longer able to ride herd. Not so at the McCabe Ranch. Pa felt a cowhand was no better than the horse beneath him. In many parts of the west, the land was rugged and the civilization sparse, and a man’s life often depended on the quality of his horse. Pa had scouted out the best man he could find to care for his horses, and offered him top pay. To be wrangler for the McCabes was one of the most sought-after jobs in the territory. And Fred took this job very seriously.

Josh rode across the valley to a trail that began in a small depression between two ridges. He followed it as it wound its way through a small canyon, then between two more ridges, through thick stands of pines, then out onto a gravely plateau just beyond the valley. This plateau was where a small town was in the process of forming.

The town was nothing more