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

Pa’s hair had grown an inch or so since he had last been home, now falling past his shoulders. Sprouting from his jaw was nearly an inch of white whiskers. His clothes were covered with trail dust. But even so, Aunt Ginny violated her own rule of requiring you to be freshly bathed before you sit down at the table, and suggested they all come into the house for lunch.

Bree brewed a fresh pot of coffee while Josh filled Pa in on all that had happened since his absence. Reno and Whitey. The gunfight. The fist fight. Aunt Ginny was hearing some of this for the first time, and the way she leveled her gaze at Josh told him she wasn’t happy about it. Not happy about the events themselves, and less happy that she hadn’t been told.

And Josh told Pa about the raiders, first the trail he had happened upon outside the valley and the remains of a cow that indicated they were rustling McCabe stock, and then how Hunter and the young gunfighter working for him had ridden out here to protect Aunt Ginny and Bree. Pa didn’t offer a comment as Josh told him about his error in judgment, didn’t speak at all until Josh had finished.

“Yeah,” he said. “When I was riding through mountains outside the valley, I saw signs of riders, and the remains of a camp. Once I’ve had a cup of hot coffee, why don’t you and I saddle up and take a ride?”

After the coffee, Bree went outside to find Fred and have him saddle a couple geldings for Pa and Josh. Fred had already stripped the saddle from Thunder, and was commencing to give the horse a rubdown.

Josh buckled on his gunbelt, and then at Pa’s recommendation grabbed a Winchester carbine, and thumbed cartridges into it until the magazine was loaded to its capacity of twelve.

“John, I’m concerned about you,” Aunt Ginny sad. “Here you’ve not been home an hour, and you’re going to be back in the saddle.”

“Think these old bones need a rest?” he asked, not smiling, but with the twinkle of amusement in his eye.

“Well, you’re not a young man, anymore”

“I'm hardly ready for the rocking chair yet. Give me a couple more years.”

“John, let Josh go into town and get Dusty, the young man working for Hunter. They can scout about and find the location of those riders. Dusty is very capable at that sort of thing.”

Josh snapped, “And I’m not?”

“This is not the time for male pride,” she leveled her gaze firmly at him from over the top of her spectacles. “You are more than a competent cattleman and horseman, Joshua, but Dusty has knowledge about this sort of thing. The kind that can only come from experience. Almost on the level of your father or Zack. And watch that tone of voice, young man.”

“Yes’m.”

She turned her attention back to Johnny. “Seriously, John. Let the boys handle this.”

Josh looked at her curiously. Why was she so worried about Pa? When Ma died and Aunt Ginny moved in to help with Josh and Jack and Bree, they had struck an agreement. The household would be her domain, and the working of the ranch would be Pa’s. Defending the place also fell into his territory. She had never, in Josh’s memory, questioned him about such matters.

Pa looked at her squarely in the eye, and for a moment didn’t speak. A sort of silent communication was happening between them. Josh frowned a bit, and placed his fists on his hips, wondering what the hell this was about?

Then Pa said, “We’ll be all right. We’ll be back before dark.”

And that was all that was said. Pa returned his dusty stetson to his head, opened the door, and Josh followed him out to the porch and down to the gravely yard, and out to the corral.

Tethered to the middle rail of the corral were two gray geldings, one with two white stockings, and one with three. Josh’s saddle was on one, Pa’s on the other. Pa’s saddle bags were still strapped on, but his bedroll was now gone. And his Sharps was still in the boot.

Fred stood behind the fence, his foot up on one rail. He chewed a strand of hay. “I kind’a figured you’d be wanting to check things out,” he said, the strand of hay wobbling as he spoke. “I picked a couple of mounts that shouldn’t stand out color-wise. I took the liberty of dumping the extra weight out of your saddle bags. Your stuff’s in the tackle room. All I left in there were your moccasins and a couple boxes of ammo.”

Pa nodded and swung into the saddle. One easy, smooth motion. Easier than most men half his age. Josh couldn’t imagine what Aunt Ginny was concerned about.

He and Josh started away, Josh riding alongside Pa. Most riders held the rein in the right hand and any excess rein back and away with their left, using the excess as a quirt, slapping it against the rump of the horse if more speed was desired. Pa, however, had taught Josh to ride with the rein in his left, and with the excess simply hanging freely. If a horse couldn’t pick up his pace with but a touch of the rider’s heels to his ribs, he wasn’t much of a horse. And this method allowed the rider to keep his gunhand free. Pa rode with his right hand usually resting lightly against the side of his holster, so if need should arise he could slide the hand upward and draw his pistol in one fluid motion.

“We’ll make like we’re riding to town,” Pa said. “Head to the back horse trail, in case we’re being watched. Then once we’re in the woods, we’ll cut north and up the ridge, and find last night’s camp site.”

At the far edge of the meadow, the horse trail began. It cut through the forest that