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

But Josh wasn’t yet quite up to going in and facing the music. He wanted to take the edge off, first. He thought briefly of saddling another horse and riding back to Hunter’s. Nothing took the edge off like a couple cold beers. However, he didn’t feel like riding all the way back to town. Then, he thought of another good way to take the edge off, one that had always worked for him. Target practice. He and Pa kept a box of empty cans in the tackle room just for that purpose.

Josh carried the box out to the corral fence. He stood six cans on the top rail of the fence, then took thirty paces back. Beyond the corral was an empty expense of meadow, as the remuda was grazing off to the other side at the moment. He drew his gun, and with powder and ball and a percussion cap he took from his vest, he loaded the sixth chamber, then returned the gun to his holster.

Josh readied himself, letting his hand hang above his pistol. He kept his fingers loose, relaxed but not limp. He drew a deep breath, then whipped his gun free of the holster, brought his arm to full extension, and fired at each can, trying to pull back the hammer and pull the trigger all in one smooth continuous motion. Like Pa had taught him.

From the kitchen doorway, Aunt Ginny and Bree were watching. Six shots. Four cans flew from the rail. They watched as Josh shook his head with disgust at himself, then produced a second, loaded cylinder from his vest, and began removing the spent cylinder from his pistol.

“I don’t know what we will do with that boy,” Aunt Ginny said. “Always trying to be like his Pa. There is nothing necessarily wrong with that, and Josh is like his Pa in more ways than he realizes, but he’s like your mother in some ways, too. The blend of the two is part of what makes a unique individual. If only someone could tell him that.”

“No time like the present,” Bree said, and started for the corral.

“Bree,” Aunt Ginny said. “I’ve tried. He’s never listened to me.”

“He’ll listen to me if he knows what’s good for him.”

Josh lined up six more cans, then took thirty paces back, and saw Bree striding toward him. Her dark hair was tied into a tail that swung behind her as she strode, and she wore a white blouse and tan split skirt, and black riding boots. She would have lived in levis had Aunt Ginny allowed her, but her aunt was adamantly against that. A lady does not wear britches! Today’s outfit was one of Bree’s compromises.

“I noticed you missed two,” Bree said.

“I’m not very good company right now,” he said, turning to face the cans as though they were an enemy gunfighter ready to draw down on him.

“I didn’t notice any difference,” he said with a smirk.

He gave her a sidelong glance. He didn’t really appreciate the sarcasm. He squared away against the cans.

“When are you going to stop this nonsense?” she asked.

“Bree, just leave me alone, all right?”

“Do you like this? Do you really like feeling sorry for yourself because you’re not enough like Pa?”

He let out a slow sigh, and his teeth came together tightly. “Look, don’t push it. Stay out of my head.”

“You can never be exactly like Pa. You’re not supposed to be, any more than I can be exactly like Ma, or Aunt Ginny. We have to each be ourselves.”

“That gunhawk who rode in here last night doesn’t seem to have much trouble being like Pa.”

“How do you know? We haven’t even got to know him. He might look a little more like Pa, but you have a lot of Ma in you, too. Is that so bad?”

Josh squared away against the cans again, and drew. Six shots. Four cans, and one of them had not been a direct hit. Rather than leaping off like the other three had, it spun a bit, then toppled to the grass.

“Bree, you’re distracting me.”

Bree was about to say, you’ll never be able to shoot like Pa, because that’s not your strength. Your strength is in livestock. Pa said to her once that he’d seen very few who have the natural way with horses that Josh does, and that he envied that.

But before she could say it, Dusty spoke from behind them. “Not bad shootin’.”

She looked over her shoulder to see the boy who claimed to be their brother strolling up. She didn’t see where he had come from. She knew Aunt Ginny had accepted him, and it looked like Pa was beginning to, but Bree wasn’t sure how she felt.

“I don’t recall asking your opinion,” Josh said. “And I don’t need an audience. I wish you both would go away.”

Dusty stopped beside Josh. “Can’t leave two standing.”

Dusty’s pistol leaped into his hand. He held it at hip level, and with the palm of his left hand working the hammer, fanned four shots so rapidly they blended together into a single roar. Both cans leaped away from the fence.

“Pretty fancy.” Pa said, from behind them. Bree jumped. None of the them had been aware of Pa riding up behind them until he spoke. Thunder’s hooves had landed quietly in the soft sod, and the roar of the gunfire drowned out any noise that was anything less than loud.

Pa was sitting atop Thunder, his wide brimmed stetson in place, and his pistols buckled about his hips.

“Fancy enough,” Dusty said, flipping open the loading gate and dropping the two empties to the grass.

“Fancy. And fast. But fast isn’t always what you want.”

“Oh? And what do you want?”

Josh answered for Pa. “You want smoothness. Smoothness creates accuracy.”

Dusty glanced at him with annoyance. “I got both cans.”

“Yes,” Pa said. “But it cost you four shots.”

Pa swung from the saddle and handed the rein to Bree. “That