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

thought sprung up and started to take shape. Maybe a ride in the hills was what he needed to clear his head.

He belted on his pistol, went inside and set the empty mug on the bar, then strode to the livery and saddled his horse.

The air was even crisper up on the ridge. A good ten degrees cooler, Dusty thought. Clean, and nourishing. The wind was stronger, causing pine boughs to sway as though the trees were waving at him. He removed his hat and slung it along his saddle horn to let his hair blow freely.

He rode along among the upright pines, letting his horse find its way. He rode with the Spencer across the pommel. It was not that he was expecting trouble, but his saddle had no scabbard, and he did not have the money to buy one, and he wasn’t going to tack more onto the debt he already owed Hunter.

After a time, he topped out on a rocky ledge, and below and in the distance were the wooden structures making up the little town of McCabe Gap. A thin wisp of smoke was drifting from Hunter’s stove pipe. A couple riders were moving along the structures, in Hunter’s direction. Probably going for a beer.

He didn’t know how, but in the short time he had been here, this little scattering of buildings that was not quite a town had made a claim on his heart. It had nothing to offer him, except a job cooking and serving beer at Hunter’s and serving as the unofficial town marshal. But there would always be the specter of the truth just up the trail, in the ranch house the McCabes called home.

He didn’t know if he could confront that truth, yet he didn’t know how he could remain so close and not do it.

And there was Oregon, and a girl who was calling to his heart.

In a grassy section atop the ridge, he dismounted and loosened his horse’s cinch. While the horse grazed, Dusty sat in the grass and watched some clouds drifting overhead, and an eagle gliding about in the winds.

He had ridden into the mountains hoping to clear his head and make a decision. However, he found no answer on the ridge or in the clouds or in watching the eagle. As he rode back down to McCabe Gap, he was still caught with stomach-tightening indecision. He was afraid to confront his father and risk being met with rejection, yet if he was to simply point his horse’s nose west to Oregon, he would always wonder if he had made the right decision.

If only there was someone here he could talk it out with. Sometimes it is easier to sort things out if you have someone to bounce options off of. But there was no one, except maybe Hunter.

Dusty led his horse into the livery, stripped off the saddle and gave the animal a good brushing down, then headed into Hunter’s.

Two horses were tethered at the hitching rail in front of Hunter’s. McCabe brands. Dusty stepped up onto the board walk and gazed through the window.

Two men stood at the bar, a mug of beer in front of each. Hunter was standing behind the bar, grinning broadly, a third mug in his hand.

Dusty recognized one of the men. About his own height and age, long straw colored hair falling from under his hat to his shoulders. Josh McCabe. The man with him was maybe forty, with a weathered face and steel gray hair as long as Josh’s. Though Dusty did not consider himself a gunfighter, he had been trained to think like one, and his eye immediately caught the man’s twin Remingtons, one holstered at each side. Must be the man himself, Johnny McCabe.

A thought occurred to Dusty. He could just walk into the barroom and introduce himself, and get the matter over with. Then, if he was not welcome, he could just saddle up and ride on to Oregon.

He took a couple steps toward the swinging doors, then stopped. Uncertainty filled him, tightening his stomach almost like panic.

The hell with this. He would be more comfortable simply not knowing.

He turned on his heel and strode to the livery. He was getting the hell out of here.

He unbuttoned his shirt and shouldered out of it, and neatly folded it with his other clothing he had purchased from Franklin with Hunter’s credit, and rolled them in his bedroll. Then he pulled on his buckskin shirt. It was of stronger material, and could better weather the rigors of the trail.

There was an old saddle lying in one corner of the livery. It had belonged to a drifter who had gotten himself shot at Hunter’s one Saturday night. No one had even gotten the man’s name or knew where he was from, so there the saddle simply set. The finish on the leather had worn away in places, and the leather was cracking. The man who operated the livery had told Dusty he could take it. Dusty had no need, as his own saddle was in much better condition, but now he eyed the scabbard tied to the saddle.

It was a hand-made scabbard, cut from buckskin and sewn together with rawhide. Dusty slid his Spencer into it, and found it was a good fit. He drew a knife and cut the scabbard free, then tied it to his own saddle with the rifle’s stock aiming forward and resting under the pommel, so he would have easy access to it.

Dusty saddled his horse, then tied the bedroll behind it. He filled both canteens at the water trough out front, then with his stetson still hanging from the saddle horn along with the canteens, he led the horse outside and stepped into the saddle.

The sun had just dropped below the ridges to the west and gray twilight was settling upon the land, as Dusty gave the town a sweeping glance. What he figured would be his last. He would miss this little