The Long Trail (The McCabes Book 1) Brad Dennison (top 10 books to read .txt) 📖

whose mother was from Mexico and father was French. Ramon was about Josh’s age, and seemed to have a natural affinity with horses. Zack hoped Ramon would remain content as his wrangler, and not become lost in the romance of riding the range as a cowhand. He was paying Ramon better than any cowhand on his place, in an attempt to encourage him.

A small river cut across the valley maybe a quarter mile from the house, and years earlier Zack and Johnny had built a wooden bridge. Zack rode over the bridge now, the iron shod hooves of his horse drumming loudly on them. Fred Mitchum, about to step into the barn, looked up at the sound and saw Zack approaching.

“Zack!” he called out. “Nice mornin’ for a ride.”

Zack reined up in front of him. “Fred, is Johnny back yet?”

“No.”

“Where’s Josh?”

“Out ridin’ line. He won’t be back for a week. Why? Is somethin’ wrong?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Zack swung out of the saddle. “Quick as you can, fetch me a fresh mount.”

Fred asked no further questions. He had known Zack Johnson a long time, and Zack was perhaps Johnny’s best friend in the world. It was common knowledge Zack had free access to anything that was Johnny’s, and even though he now had his own home, this ranch would never stop being home to him. Fred grabbed a lariat he had coiled and dropped over a post in the corral fence and hurried out to the meadow behind the house, where the McCabe remuda grazed and frolicked in the morning air.

Soon he was returning with a long-legged appaloosa. “Best runner we have, short of Rabbit. And Johnny’s horse, Thunder.”

Zack had already stripped the saddle from his own mount, and now went to work on the appaloosa. He then leaped into the saddle. “Take care of mine, will you?”

“Sure will. Do you need any help?”

“No. but if I’m not back in an hour, go into town and get Hunter. Tell him to follow my trail, and to be careful.”

And he was off, bearing west.

Soon he was in the low hills that preceded the mountains that rimmed the valley. He found the access point to the low ridge he had observed earlier. He pulled his Winchester, and rode with it across the pommel.

He kept the appaloosa to a walk, its hooves landing with only a muffled thud on the pine needle strewn earth, or the soft sod of the occasional open grassy expanse.

As he neared the area from which he had seen the reflection, he dismounted, leaving the appaloosa with a rein trailing, ground-hitched they called it, and moved ahead, his rifle gripped in both hands.

He came upon the spot where the reflection had originated. It was now deserted, but plenty of tracks covered the ground. Two men, one with boots the size of Zack’s. But a much heavier man, Zack judged by the depth of the track. The second man had a smaller foot, and narrower. Maybe the size of Josh. The ground was littered with cigarette butts, and nearby Zack found where a couple of horses had been tethered to a low hanging pine branch.

Two men had waited here, possibly watching the trail below. Maybe with field glasses, which might explain the reflected light.

Zack figured it had taken twenty minutes to reach the McCabe Ranch after he had seen the reflection. Fred was maybe five minutes rounding up the appaloosa for him, Zack was another few minutes saddling up, then he estimated it was forty-five minutes getting to this ridge, riding carefully and quietly. The total time, he figured, was a little shy of an hour and a half. During that time, the two riders had mounted up and were gone.

It was probably nothing, he thought. But it just didn’t look right. He decided to go fetch the appaloosa and follow their trail a short distance, just to be certain.

Civilization was slowly creeping its way westward, but still, in many parts of the West, these mountains included, the only law was your skill with a gun. McCabe Gap was the only settlement within a day’s ride, and there was as yet no lawman there, and any community large enough for a town marshal would give him jurisdiction extending only to the town line. In the large tracts of land between such towns, sometimes hundreds of miles, the only law might be a Territorial Marshal, but there were simply not enough of them to adequately cover all the open range.

This was a rough land. Renegade Indians still occasionally raided, though increasingly more seldom, but they were being replaced with the even more dangerous white renegade.

Bands of outlaws, many of them guerrilla raiders from the late War Between the States who were now carrying on their own private war, roamed the remote corners of the west. Quantrill, the Jameses, the Youngers, and the Patterson gang. And other bands not so well known. They were seldom seen this far north, but with the Territory becoming more populated, and as a result more prosperous, with mining and cattle ranching bringing in other businesses, and with the law closing in on them down in Kansas, Missouri and Texas, it seemed inevitable some might drift northward.

Zack rode directly south, following the trail of the two riders, descending the hill and then directing his horse up slope heavily wooded with tall pines.

He had not ridden a mile further when at the summit of this ridge, the trail made by the two riders converged with another. Large scatterings of hoofprints, too many for Zack to even venture a guess as to the number of riders. Maybe ten, maybe more. One print seemed to obliterate another.

He dismounted, stepping down silently as he wore no spurs to jingle as he moved. Despite Zack’s Texas roots, and that spurs rang almost musically at the heels of every cowboy who grew up in Texas, Johnny McCabe had convinced him of the folly of them. You never know when you might need