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

scuff of bootsoles. He glanced up at the young man in the doorway, and the first thing he noticed was the way the boy wore his pistol. Like it was a part of him.

Then he noticed there was something oddly familiar about him. About the set of his shoulders. About the strong, almost square jaw. And the look in his eyes.

“Howdy,” Hunter said. “You’re the first customer of the day, which I guess ain’t too surprising, for a Monday.”

The boy nodded.

Hunter shifted the broom to his left hand and stepped toward the boy, extending his right. “My name’s Hunter.”

“Most folks just call me Dusty.”

Hunter’s huge paw wrapped around Dusty’s.

“You look like you been in the saddle a while,” Hunter said. “Can I get you something to wash away the trail dust?”

“Actually, I smell coffee in here, and it sure smells good. I haven’t had me a cup of coffee in a week.”

“Well, the coffee does smell about ready.” A kettle of coffee boiled away on a stove at the center of the room. Hunter leaned the broom against a table, and poured Dusty a steaming cup.

“I got me a small problem,” Dusty said. “I don’t have any money. What I’m looking for is a job.”

“A job, eh?” Hunter was not hiring. Though he was turning a profit, he was doing so barely. He would like to have had some hired help to relieve him of the long days he had to put in, but he simply could not afford it. This was cattle country, and ranchers and their hired hands usually lived on credit between drives to market. During the long stretches between cattle drives, Hunter rarely saw cash.

Yet, there was something about this boy he could not place – something oddly familiar about him.

“Tell you what,” Hunter said. “First cup’s free. Grab a chair, and I’ll be right back.”

“I don’t want charity.”

“Ain’t charity. It’s called hospitality. I’ll never deny a man a cup of coffee or a drink of water. Grab yourself a chair, and one for me, too. I’ll be right back.”

Hunter stepped into the back room, and a few minutes later emerged with two tin cups. He filled them with hot, black coffee and handed one to Dusty.

“I’m much obliged,” Dusty said.

“Think nothin’ of it.” Hunter dropped into a chair. “You been through here before?”

Dusty shook his head. “Never in my life. Not until today. Been sleeping on the trail. I happened onto this town, and I thought I might try to find some work.”

Hunter took a sip of coffee. Thick, strong. Trail coffee. He had developed a taste for it during his years of working for the McCabes.

“So,” he said. “What kind of work do you do?”

“Cowpunchin’, mostly. And I’ve done some mustangin’. Worked a trail drive once, for the Cantrell spread down in Arizona. Rode shotgun for a freight outfit for a few weeks, before that.”

“Arizona, huh? That’s a long haul from there to here.”

Dusty nodded. “Did it all on horseback.”

Hunter’s brows went up.

Dusty nodded. “Every mile of it. First to Nevada, then from there to here.”

“You don’t hear about that sort of thing anymore, but in the old days, long hauls like that were done more often. My daddy, he was a fur trapper back in the thirties, before he took up with a girl who was going west with her family, and settled in Oregon. He and those like him used to travel hundreds of miles at a time on horseback, with only their bedroll, a knife, and a good rifle.”

Dusty nodded. “Got to get me a rifle.”

“Today, it’s all stagecoach, and soon there’ll be a railroad spur swinging our way. About the only other man I hear about nowadays to travel overland is Johnny McCabe.”

Hunter saw a slight reaction to the name. A brief, barely noticeable flicker in his eyes. Dusty had tied not to show it, but it had been there.

“You know the McCabes?” Hunter asked.

Dusty shook his head. A little too quickly, Hunter thought.

“No,” Dusty said.

Hunter decided to let it pass, and continued. “I was a cowpuncher, myself. I rode for the McCabes for a lot of years, before I built this place. I don’t know if Johnny McCabe ever even set foot on a stagecoach or a train. Everywhere he always went, it was by horseback. Even now, he’s off to a cattle auction, and he went by horseback.”

Hunter took a sip of coffee, his eyes on Dusty, trying to figure him. Dusty’s eyes did not have the look of a man on the run, that sort of edginess known to the breed. He was calm, his brown eyes reminding Hunter of a still pond. Yet, what could bring a man all the way from Arizona? Especially by a round-about route that took him to Nevada? He must have logged a thousand miles. That’s a lot of distance, especially with your backside in a saddle.

It was not the way of those who lived in the west to pry, so Hunter decided not to voice his questions. He would instead direct his attention to the Colt riding at Dusty’s right side.

“I’ll say one thing for you, Dusty. You carry that gun like you know how to use it. More than you’d expect from the average cowhand.”

“Yeah. I’ve been trained by the best. But I ain’t no outlaw. I’ve got no price on my head. And I don’t go around looking’ for trouble.”

“Didn’t say you was, son.”

“I’m just looking for work. If you ain’t hiring, then I’m hoping you could direct me to someone who might be.”

“You tried the McCabe place? There are about five ranches all within a day’s ride of here, but the McCabe spread is the closest.”

“Nope. I ain’t looking for a cowpuncher job. Nothing that permanent. Just an odd job or two for a few days. Maybe a week or two, at best.”

“Then what? Moving’ on?”

Dusty shrugged. “Next stop is Oregon.”

Hunter chuckled. “Oregon?”

Dusty nodded, a little sheepishly. “There’s a girl there, and..,” he let it trail off.

Hunter