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

In the twilight, he noticed the two McCabe horses were no longer in front of Hunter’s. Josh McCabe and his father must have ridden home. But he failed to notice Hunter himself standing on the boardwalk in the saloon doorway until he heard the deep baritone call out, “Goin’ somewhere?”

Damn. Dusty had wanted to be long gone before anyone noticed he was missing. He turned his horse toward the saloon and walked it over.

Hunter stepped fully out onto the boardwalk. “You look like you’re leaving.”

“Yeah. It’s time I was moving on.”

“You weren’t even going to say goodbye?”

Dusty shrugged. “Sorry. I just ain’t very good at that sort of thing. I got business in Oregon I’d best be tending to. I’ll be sending you the money I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me any money, Dusty.”

“I don’t accept charity.” It seemed it this was the second time today he had said this.

“It’s not charity. Come on inside, and have one last beer, and we’ll talk about it.” Dusty hesitated, so Hunter added, “You won’t find cold beer anywhere between here and Oregon.”

Dusty nodded. This was true. He dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching rail, where the McCabe horses had been tethered earlier.

Dusty rested one elbow onto the bar while he waited for Hunter to return from the cellar with the beer.

Dusty heard the heavy footfalls of Hunter’s boots on the ladder, then Hunter stepped back into the room, and set one foaming mug on the bar before Dusty.

Hunter said,, “You look like something’s trouble you.”

“I guess I just don’t know what to do. Afraid to do something, but afraid not to do it.”

Hunter took a sip of beer. “If you want to talk about it, I’m willing to listen.”

Dusty did not know where to begin. He lifted the mug and took a deep pull of brew. “Okay, let’s say you’ve never met your father.”

“I’ve never met my father.”

“I’m serious.”

Hunter shrugged his massive shoulders. “So am I. I never have met my father.”

“Do you know who he is?”

Hunter shook his head. “I take my name from an old mountain man who took me in, and raised me like his own son.”

Dusty looked at him curiously. “You got a first name?”

Hunter shrugged. “Must have, at one time. I was too young to remember. And the old man, he never knew my name. A wagon train had been attacked and burned. Comanches. He came along and heard a baby crying. Found me. Any papers there might have been that would have identified me went up in flames with the wagons.

“At first he just called me ‘boy,’ but then, he discovered as I grew that I was good in the woods, good at tracking, and I could move through the woods like an Indian. By the time I was ten, I was already big enough to shoot his eight gauge scatter gun without it knocking me over, so I often put meat on the table while he tended his traps. So, he took to calling me ‘Hunter.’ When I talk about my mother and her cooking, I’m really referring to his Indian wife. She was like a mother to me.

“And y’know, that’s more than I’ve ever said to anyone else about my background. I like keeping things private.”

“Well,” Dusty said, “let’s say only just a little while ago you found out who your father was. Would you go to meet him, and maybe be faced with him not wanting you in his life, or maybe even worse, not believing you were his at all? Or do you just ride on and never know?”

“And you rode all the way from Arizona to meet your father?”

“By way of Nevada. Pretty foolish, huh?”

“Dusty, your father would want to meet you. He wouldn’t want you to just ride away.”

“But how do you know for certain? I don’t know if I could take being turned away.”

“He would never turn you away.”

It struck Dusty that Hunter wasn’t speaking like he was guessing. He was saying it like he knew. Dusty said, “But how can you know for sure?”

“Look, Dusty, I’ve known your father a long time. He would never turn away a child of his. I know he never knew about you, because if he had, he would have gone looking for you. He would have wanted you in his life.”

Dusty blinked with amazement. “Huh? What do you mean, you know my father? I never even told you who he is.”

Hunter chuckled. “Dusty, you’ve got McCabe written all over you’re face. The way you walk, the set of your shoulders. I knew there was something familiar about you when you first walked in. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at first, but after a few minutes, it became clear.

“That’s why I offered you the job, to keep you here until you had the chance to meet him, and because I’d never turn away a child of his. I owe him my life a dozen times over. The fact that you can cook was a bonus.

“Your father gave me a job when I was having some hard times, a time when I just needed to lay low for a while and be left alone. He gave me that job, let his bunkhouse be home for me. And like I said, I owe him my life many times over. He took a bullet for me once. And even to this day, he never asked any questions. Just took me in. Him and me, we’ve fought Indians and outlaws, droughts, blizzards and even a grizzly once. He and Josh helped me build this place.

“You owe me nothing for anything I’ve done for you. I’ll never take money from him or one of his kids. This place will always be open to you, anytime you need it. Anything I can do, you just let me know.

“I think Aunt Ginny’s pretty much figured out who you are, too. You can’t slip much past her.

“Ride on out