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

“I’ll have to speak to him about that. You have to be one of the most intelligent men I have ever met.”

“No, don’t say anything to him. He didn’t mean anything bad. He was just commenting, that’s all.

“You know, I’ve been in a lot of battles over the years, and I’ve seen some bravery. And I’ve seen some cowardice. And I don’t really think there’s much difference. Just extreme reactions to extreme situations. On one hand you have men who can just seem to rise up and do what has to be done, regardless of the danger or their own fear, to make sure as many of the men with them as possible can return home alive. And on the other hand you have men who are just paralyzed by fear. Most men, though, fall somewhere in between. I guess, for some reason, I’ve always seemed to fall into the first category. Like that time I shot those five Comanches - I didn’t even think about the danger. I just pulled my pistol and began shooting, like those Comanches were just tin cans setting on a fence rail and it was target practice.”

“You know,” Aunt Ginny said, “being able to look yourself in the face and see yourself objectively takes strength in itself. Especially when so much is made of your exploits, when you’re talked about in saloons and around campfires. It would be so easy to form a larger-than-life image of yourself.”

Pa said nothing. Josh imagined he was taking another draw on his pipe and staring into the fire.

Finally, Pa said, “I don’t know. All I hope for is a summer without trouble. Then an uneventful fall roundup. Then, an easy winter. And then, in the spring, I’ll be leaving Josh in charge, and riding to California. He’s a man, now, and can handle things. I’ll probably be back by first snow.”

“You’re going to visit Lura’s grave?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to go.”

There was then a long silence. Josh would normally have felt proud, very proud, to hear his father refer to him as a man, and saying he trusted him to run the ranch for an entire summer. But something about that silence, and a feeling in the air, made him uncomfortable. He was waiting for something more to be said, and he found he was holding his breath.

Finally, Aunt Ginny asked, “Will you really be coming back?”

Pa said quietly, “I don’t know.”

SIXTEEN

Johnny finally rose to his feet, held his pipe over the dying fire and tapped the mouth of the bowl with the flat of his free hand to empty the ashes, then returned the pipe to the glass ash tray on the arm of his chair. “Well, I guess I’ll be turning in, Ginny.”

“I think I might stay up a while longer, maybe have another cup of tea.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night. Oh, and John?”

He had started for the stairs, but turned back to her.

She said, “It’s good to have you home.”

He nodded with a half smile. “Good night.”

She listened to his footfalls on the stairs as he climbed them. Remarkably soft, his foot steps were. Even in hard soled riding boots, he seemed to glide along rather than simply walk.

These were some of her favorite times, when she was the only one awake in the house. It seemed to somehow make the noises of the night come alive with more clarity. The ceiling creaked for a moment, the house settling. Even the rocking of her chair on the braided rug atop the wooden floor seemed more noticeable.

The dying fire crackled a little, just to let Ginny know a bit of life still remained. A tiny blaze danced atop the remains of one log. Ginny sipped her tea, watching the remaining lick of flame flicker, grow smaller, then come back a bit, flicker one more time, and then disappear entirely. She finished her tea, and went to the kitchen. The pot was still hot, and she poured another cup.

Rather than returning to her rocker, she walked the length of the parlor, and stepped out onto the porch. The air was refreshingly cooler now that night was upon the land and crickets chirped in the tall grass beyond the ranch yard. She heard an owl call in the distance.

She cast one nervous glance to the ridges at the far end of the valley, hoping not to see the glow of a campfire, and did not. Maybe the riders were finally gone.

She kept an old rocker on the porch, and it was this that she lowered herself into, not spilling a drop of tea. With the saucer in once hand she lifted the cup with the other and took a sip.

This was not the usual blend of black tea that one expected to find in this country. Ginny bought her tea from a Chinese merchant in San Francisco. Green tea, it was called. Much more subtle in flavor, but it warmed you nicely from the inside out. Very meditative, the merchant had called it, and she found it was. Now that she no longer lived in San Francisco – the house she had inherited from her father had been closed up since Lura died – she had a friend purchase the tea and ship it to her. She kept a tin of black tea for guests, but when she was the only one indulging in a cup, she brewed green tea.

It was late. She and Johnny had stayed up much longer than usual. On a working ranch, the men are usually up before daybreak to fit as much work into the day as possible, and she was up with them. This ranch had no cook, which was unusual, as much so as Johnny’s policy regarding the position of wrangler. Lura had originally done the cooking at the ranch in California as a cost-savings measure; it was a much smaller operation in those days. After her death, Ginny took over the cooking duties, and continued when Johnny moved them