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

“All right,” Johnny said. “Get everyone into position.”

And Josh was out the door, his gravely voice roaring into the night as he called out orders.

Fred Mitchum grabbed the Sharps rifle and a Winchester, and charged up the stairs to the guest room window which overlooked the ranch yard. Josh, as agile as the best Shoshone warrior Johnny had ever seen, climbed onto the front porch roof and leaped upward, curling his fingers around the roof edge, and pulled himself up. From the guest room window, Fred handed the Sharps out and up to him. Josh then positioned himself behind the peak of the roof.

Dusty took his designated place at one parlor window, Johnny at the other, both looking out at the front yard. Hunter went into the extension that served as Aunt Ginny’s bedroom, and a window that faced out toward the corral. Others took to the windows of the bunkhouse.

From the rooftop, Josh could make out eight dancing, flickering lights from the direction of the wooden bridge. The riders were advancing. Almost within rifle range. But he could also see seven more approaching from the woods to the west. They were attacking from two directions. Josh called out, “Riders to the west, also! Seven of them!”

“I see ‘em!” Fred called back, then ran out to the corridor, and the top of the stairs. “Riders to the west, too. Josh counts seven torches. Eight coming straight on from the bridge.”

“Seven to the west,” Johnny relayed the call to the others on the ground floor, and those outside who could hear him. “Eight coming straight on.”

One of the men in the bunkhouse echoed the call. “Seven to the west, eight straight on!”

The riders were still not close enough for Josh to make them out as anything more than globs of darkness beneath each flickering torch. At their speed, he figured they wouldn’t be in range of Fred’s Winchester for maybe another ten seconds. However, a Sharps had more range than any other rifle Josh knew of.

Josh used the peak of the roof to steady his left arm as he held the forestock of the Sharps, and he pushed the butt of the rifle into his right shoulder and drew a bead on a spot of darkness beneath one of the dancing points of flame. Pa was better than any man alive with a pistol, but with a shoulder arm, Josh had developed skills that stood on Pa’s level. A fleeting thought occurred to him as he tightened his finger on the trigger – if they all lived through this, Josh would have to challenge Dusty to a marksmanship contest with rifles, and see if the show-off could keep up with him, then.

The Sharps thundered and bucked against Josh’s shoulder. The tiny dancing flame dropped and became stationary, then disappeared as it was extinguished beneath the hooves of other riders.

The rider had either fallen from the saddle, or was at least wounded and had dropped the torch. Either way, Josh could spare no time wondering about it. He swung the trigger guard down, which dropped the block and exposed the chamber. He pulled the empty metallic cartridge from the chamber and tossed it away, then pushed in a fresh round and pulled the trigger guard back into position again, closing the breach. The rifle had been originally designed for use with paper cartridges and a percussion cap, but Pa had taken it to a gunsmith in Wichita who retooled it so it could fire metallic cartridges.

Josh now shifted his attention to riders coming from the west. They were now close enough so the low rumble of their hooves on the sod could be heard. With the chilly mountain wind striking his right cheekbone and ear, he drew aim on the lead rider, and fired.

He saw no reaction. He must have missed. He reloaded the rifle to try again. Guns now started firing from both groups of riders, tiny spots of flame that erupted and then were followed by the report, as sound traveled more slowly than light.

He could now make out the dark silhouette of each rider. He fired at the one at the head of the pack approaching from the bridge. The heavy caliber bullet took the rider squarely in the chest. The man fell backward and out of his saddle, and was trampled by the riders who were behind him.

Josh reloaded again, as the riders descended onto the ranch.

Zack Johnson had been standing by the firepit, holding his hands out toward it, palms out, to catch some of the heat. Three other men stood by him, doing the same. One muttered, “Damn, it’s cold.”

“Won’t be long,” Zack said. “Another hour or so, and Johnny will be out with Hunter and a couple others for the second shift.”

Zack and Hunter had been sharing a cigar with Johnny earlier in the evening when Johnny told them of his idea about posting some men out here by this stand of alders.

“Actually,” Johnny had said, “the idea wasn’t mine. It was Dusty’s. He has a good mind for guerrilla warfare.”

Hunter said, “Like father, like son.”

Ramon was taking a stroll to where the horses were tethered by the alders, while Zack stood by the small fire.

“Zack,” Ramon said, “here they come, I think.”

Zack hurried over. He could see the pinpoints of firelight dancing atop torches as riders approached the house. He could also see another set of torches, off to another side.

“Two groups of riders,” he said. “One coming straight at the house from the north, and the other from the west. Mount up!”

They swung into the saddles and turned their horses toward the ranch, riding hard. A rifle would be useless from the back of a galloping horse, so Zack and the men were armed with pistols only, and they would not be shooting until they were within close range. Zack held one in his right hand and at his left was holstered another.

“Hold your fire,” he