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

footing, another bullet from the ranch yard caught him in the chest, and he dropped to his knees.

“Pa!” Dusty called out, and ran to his father’s side.

Zack fired until his pistol was empty. He tossed it aside and pulled his second hand gun, when his horse was shot out from under him. He managed to roll free as the horse hit the ground – had one foot been caught in a stirrup, he might have been trapped beneath the animal. He scrambled to his feet, surrounded by chaos, men swinging empty rifles like clubs. One man standing beside Ramon caught a bullet in the chest. The bullet exited through his back and took a spurt of blood with it. Zack fired at the man he thought had done the shooting, though in this bedlam, he couldn’t be sure.

A bullet caught Zack behind the left shoulder. It felt like a club had struck him, and it spun him around so he faced the rider who had shot him. Zack squeezed the trigger of his pistol and emptied the man’s saddle.

Ginny stood with Bree in the flickering light of a lantern that stood on a small table in the root cellar. She could not possibly hear Dusty’s shout over the roar of the gunfire, but somehow - she could not explain how - she had.

“Wait here,” she said to Bree, and climbed the ladder.

Ginny Brackston had never been a physically strong woman, but she put her back against the trap door and pushed. It lifted slowly, and she felt her knees wobble, but she did not relent. She forced the door upward. The table slid away as the door rose. She climbed out and into the kitchen, and let the door slam down behind her.

Fred was at the back door, firing. He did not see her, and could not even hear the slam of the trap door over the deafening gunfire.

She hurried into parlor. Johnny was lying on his back, with Dusty kneeling at his side.

Dusty had forgotten about the third rider, who was now at the window by Johnny’s desk, a pistol in his hand.

“Dusty!” Ginny called. “Behind you!”

Dusty wheeled, gripping his rifle at hip level, and the rifle barked, and the man’s head snapped back, his head split as though it had been struck with an ax.

A man leaped from his horse onto Zack, pulling him to the ground. Zack’s pistol came free of his grip, and his left arm would no longer move from the bullet it had taken, but he raised a foot and kicked the man away.

The man leaped to his feet and faced Zack with a bowie knife in his hand. And the man was smiling, his big white teeth catching the moonlight. His hat had fallen away and long shaggy hair tossed about in the mountain winds. He was smiling! To him, this battle was nothing more than sport. One of the most dangerous men, Johnny had always said, was the man who killed simply because he enjoyed it.

The man lunged at Zack, who could do nothing more than jump back to avoid the blade.

Then, a man called out, “Let’s get out of here!”

The man with the knife turned and ran, until he was met by another rider who gripped his hand and swung him up and behind him on the horse, and they galloped away with the other fleeing riders. Of the fifteen who had attacked the house, Zack counted only six riding away.

Zack groped along the ground in the darkness until he found his pistol, which contained only two more shots. He let both go in the direction of the retreating raiders, and hoped at least one found its mark, but did not think it had.

Of the men who had been positioned at the stand of alders with Zack, one had been shot in the head and was lying on his back in the grass, with unseeing eyes staring toward the stars. Another was down with a leg he had sprained when his horse had been shot out from under him. A third had been shot clean through the chest and was dead. Only Zack and Ramon were on their feet.

The nine raiders who had not ridden away were lying in the grass, some twisted as though they had gone writhing and kicking into death, others lying as though they were merely asleep.

Zack remembered a trick he had seen a Comanche warrior pull back in Texas. The warrior had hidden among the bodies of his fellow warriors who had been shot in battle. He remained still and pretended to be dead so he could escape later. Zack wanted to make sure all of these raiders were dead and not playing possum. His gun was empty, and with his left arm now losing all sensation, he knew he wouldn’t be able to reload the gun, so he looked to one of the men from his ranch, who was walking over. A man he knew only as Koller.

Zack said, “Do you have any shots left?”

“Yeah. I just reloaded.”

“Give me your gun.”

Koller handed over a Colt forty-four, and with it in his right hand, Zack went to the downed raiders, driving the toe of a boot firmly into the ribs of each man.

“Boss,” Ramon said. “You’re bleeding all down your back.”

“Yeah. I’ll tend to it.”

When Zack was satisfied all the raiders were dead, he handed the pistol back to Koller.

Ramon said, “Hey, Zack. There’s someone running out from the house.”

Zack looked toward the house to see the running man, a Winchester in his hand. His face was darkened by the night, but his white shirt was clearly visible, and a vertical stripe at each shoulder indicated suspenders.

“Fred?” Zack asked.

“Zack! Johnny’s been hit. Bad.”

Zack felt the breath catch in his chest. He had always known the moment would come for him and Johnny, when one of them would have to look down on the dead body of the other. He found himself suddenly almost weak-kneed at the