Return of the Gunhawk (The McCabes Book 3) Read online

  RETURN OF THE GUNHAWK

  Brad Dennison

  Author of

  THE LONG TRAIL and ONE MAN’S SHADOW

  Published by Pine Bookshelf

  Buford, Georgia

  Return of the Gunhawk is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2014 by Bradley A. Dennison

  All Rights Reserved

  Editor: Kay Jordan

  Copy Editor: Loretta Yike

  Cover Design: Donna Dennison

  Cover Art: The Free Trader, by Charles M. Russell

  THE McCABES

  The Long Trail

  One Man’s Shadow

  Return of the Gunhawk

  Boom Town

  Trail Drive

  Johnny McCabe

  Shoshone Valley (Coming Soon)

  JUBILEE

  Preacher With A Gun

  Gunhawk Blood (Coming Soon)

  THE TEXAS RANGER

  Tremain

  Wardtown

  Jericho (Coming Soon)

  To Leon and Tula Shook

  Good friends from Texas who, without even knowing it, helped inspire the direction for this novel

  Contents

  PART ONE

  The Return

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  PART TWO

  The Canyon

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  PART THREE

  The Stand

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  PART FOUR

  The Trail

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  PROLOGUE

  Wardtown, Texas

  September, 1879

  The man called Smith leaned on the bar with both elbows, and had one foot up on a brass railing. A glass of whiskey was resting on the bar in front of him, waiting for him. A brass spittoon was on the floor within spitting distance, but he left it alone. Chaw was one habit he had never picked up.

  He had to make a decision. One he didn’t quite know how to make.

  His hair was long, touching his shoulders. His jaw was covered with a bushy beard that fell to the top of his shirt. His hair had stray strands of silver scattered throughout and his beard had a white streak that began just below his lower lip and extended all the way down through his chin and beyond. Like a long white stripe.

  He wore a vest, and pinned to the left side by the lapel was a tin star. Holstered at his left side was a pistol. Not that he was a lefty, but the old horse doctor had been right. His gun hand was never again strong enough to squeeze a trigger. When he held a gun out, pointing at a target and pulling on the trigger, his hand would start shaking.

  The back of his hand still had a jagged, round scar from the bullet that had torn through it.

  When times of trouble were upon the town, he would grab a scattergun, because he wasn’t much of a shot with his left hand. But this was a sleepy Tuesday morning in the second week of September. He didn’t expect a whole lot of trouble so the scattergun was at the marshal’s office.

  He reached for the glass and took the whiskey down in one gulp, and said thanks to the barkeep and turned to amble out into the dusty street.

  He didn’t normally drink whiskey in the morning. But he had a decision to make and didn’t quite know how to make it, and sometimes whiskey seemed to help him to think better. Sometimes not. This was one of those times that it did not.

  A woman and child were walking past him on the boardwalk. She was the wife of the president of the local bank.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Clayton,” he said, reaching up to tip the floppy brim of his worn, dusty old sombrero.

  She nodded politely at him. “Deputy Smith.”

  Most people in town knew him as Smith. Or Deputy Smith. Only a few knew him by his real name. Joe McCabe. Tremain did, and Josh, and Maddie. That was about it. But he was of no mind to tell anyone. Part of the long, complicated business that led to him not knowing how to make the decision he had to make.

  He stepped off the boardwalk and crossed the open dirt street to the marshal’s office. He turned the doorknob and stepped in.

  Tremain was there, sitting at the desk. He had a cup of coffee in front of him, and was squinting his eyes at a ledger sheet. He looked up at the doorway.

  “Joe,” he said.

  Joe nodded. “I wasn’t expecting you back from the ranch yet. I’ve been wandering the town, doing my rounds. Over and over. Then I stopped at the saloon to see if a glass of whiskey might help me think.”

  Tremain said, “It’s about what we heard at the saloon last Saturday. About your brother’s ranch up in Montana.”

  Joe nodded. The summer before last, the ranch had been struck by raiders, and his brother shot and nearly killed. He had heard traces and whispers of the story over the past year, but so many tall stories about his brother circulated from among the saloons and cow camps that he didn’t take it seriously. But then on Saturday night, a cowhand new to the area had details. He had been a freight wagon driver between Cheyenne and Bozeman until recently. Headed south to get away from the cold winters up Montana way, and landed a job at the Shannon Ranch. He had told the whole story.

  Joe went to the small stove in one corner, and the coffee pot standing atop it. He grabbed it and a tin cup and began to pour. He said, “The thing is, I’ve been gone so long. I haven’t seen any of ‘em in over fifteen years.”

  Tremain nodded, thinking about what he was going to say. Finally he said, “Joe, I’ve never really asked what happened that set you on the run. You’ve mentioned bits and pieces, but maybe if I knew the whole story, I’d be able to give some advice worth hearing.”

  Joe walked toward the desk, tossing Tremain’s words in his mind. He slid a chair out and sat down. He said, “Ain’t never told another living sole any of this.”

  Tremain said, “None of it will go any further, either. You have my word.”

  This meant a lot, Tremain’s word. Tremain was one of the finest men Joe had ever met.

  Joe said, “You ever hear of a man by the name of Breaker Grant?”

  Tremain nodded. “He owned a ranch a little bit north and east of here. The Broken Spur. I always thought that was a colorful name.”

  Joe nodded. “He was a former Texas Ranger. We worked for him for a short spell, my brothers and me. Back in the day. He’s long gone, now. He was an old man when we knew him.”

  Joe took a sip of his coffee. Tremain waited.

  Joe said, “I shot his son in cold blood. Coleman Grant. Put a bullet right between his eyes. Shot the life out of him.”

  Tremain stared. He hadn’t been expecting this.

  Joe said, “Ain’t never did that before, and never done it since. It’s not the way I was raised. Never shot a man in the back, my brothers or me. And never shot a man what didn’t need killing. And the only one of us who just gunned a man down was me. Though, he really did need killing.”

  Tremain said, “You’re a go
od man, Joe. I know that.”

  “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

  “There must have been a good reason.”

  He nodded. “There was a reason. Don’t know how good it was.”

  Tremain took a sip of his own coffee while he waited.

  Joe said, “He killed my brother’s wife. Lura. Old man Grant’s son, he shot and killed Lura. We always figured the bullet was meant for Johnny and caught her by mistake. But that was no excuse. We tracked the man for days. Johnny, our brother Matt, a cowhand by the name of Zack Johnson who had ridden with Johnny when they were with the Rangers, and me. We all tracked the sum’bitch for days. But then it rained and the tracks were gone.

  “Matt, he always had a gift for words. Me, I never said much. Johnny usually did his talking with his fists or his guns. But Matt went into a speech about how Johnny should give up this search because they weren’t gonna find the man, and the children needed him. We all agreed. We convinced Johnny, but it was mostly Matt’s speech.

  “But the whole time Matt was giving this talk, I had my foot on something I had seen on the ground. A big brass button with two little crossed swords on it. Grant’s son wore a coat with buttons like that. He had hated Johnny from the start. It didn’t help that Coleman’s wife had almost thrown herself at Johnny.”

  “Did he hire it done?”

  Joe shook his head. “Rode all the way out himself. I never did really understand what the hatred was all about, but as we were looking at the ground, with all of the tracks washed away, I saw the button. Sitting right there in plain sight. I put my foot over it, and then scooped it up when no one was looking.

  “I stayed with Johnny for a while. Johnny packed up the children and moved them and the herd to Montana, to a little valley we wintered in with the Shoshone a few years before that. Zack Johnson came with us, and Johnny’s late wife’s aunt, to help with the children. The Shoshone were gone, so we built a cabin and survived the first winter there, and then we expanded on the cabin the following year, building a house. Then I told Johnny it was time I was moving on. Told him I had the itch to see different territories. Either New Mexico Territory, or back to California to visit Matt. Matt had married a pretty little girl named Verna whose daddy owned a ranch. Wound up inheriting it. But the truth was, I rode back to Texas, to the Broken Spur.

  “Breaker Grant had died by then, and his son now ran the ranch. I walked into Coleman’s office one night, and he was still at his desk. I tossed the button down on the desk and told him he should be more careful what he leaves behind when he goes to try and shoot someone. Coleman, he turned white as a sheet.

  “I told him to go fetch a pistol, because only one of us was leaving the room alive. He refused. He was always a little afraid of my brothers and me. I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I just pulled my gun and shot him. Right there in his office. I done it so Johnny wouldn’t have to. I was afraid Johnny would figure it out sooner or later. Johnny has a mind like that. Sort of like you. He can look at the facts and put things together, sort of like a puzzle. He would have made a good lawman.”

  Tremain said, “You shot the killer of Johnny McCabe’s wife so he wouldn’t have to.”

  Joe nodded.

  “I’ve heard the stories about your brother’s wife being shot. It’s part of the legend. No one knows who did it. That’s part of the intrigue about it, I suppose.”

  “Well, two people know who did it. Me, and now you.”

  Tremain shook his head. “Son-of-a-gun.”

  “Right then and there, I turned and walked out of the Broken Spur headquarters and got into the saddle and just rode out. And I’ve been riding ever since.”

  “Were there ever reward posters offered for you?”

  “Not that I ever knew, strangely enough. It’s not like I hid what I was doing. I just left my horse at the hitching rail in front of the house, and walked in without knocking. I knew my way around there because my brothers and I had worked for the Broken Spur for a time. I had seen a lighted window from outside, and I knew the place and knew it was old Breaker Grant’s office. It was late, probably after ten. Late on a ranch, when the men are all up before dawn. I just left my horse outside and walked right in. I have no idea who else was in the house. The office was on the first floor. I walked in, had it out with Coleman and shot him dead. And then I just walked out the door, got on my horse and rode on. I can’t believe no one saw me. But I guess no one did.”

  Joe took a sip of coffee. “It’s not just the law I been runnin’ from, though. I suppose I’ve been sort of running from myself all this time. The man needed killing. Of that, I’m convinced. But at the same time, to just point your gun at a man’s head and pull the trigger and watch his life drain away. It does something to you. It leaves you feeling sort of sick and empty inside.”

  “You’ve never seen your brothers since?”

  Joe shook his head. “How can I? How can I face them after doing what I did? I did it so Johnny wouldn’t have to live with what I’ve been living with ever since. And so he wouldn’t have to go to prison or get the noose. Those children needed their father alive and with them. But I it doesn’t change what I done.”

  Tremain’s cup was empty. He rose to his feet, the springs of the wooden office chair creaking a bit as he lifted himself out of it. He strolled over to the stove, his boot heels clicking on the wooden floorboards. A couple boards groaned as he walked over them. He took the kettle and filled his cup.

  “Joe,” he said. “I returned from the War to find my family’s old farmhouse gone. Burned to the ground. My parents had been killed and were buried out back.”

  Joe nodded. Tremain had told him this before.

  Tremain said, “My brother Morgan had been told I died in the War. He rode out, and had been gone a long time by the time I got back home. I tried to find him, but his trail had long gone cold. It’s been almost fifteen years. I finally stopped searching and made my home here. I guess what I’m trying to say,” he was walking back to his desk as he spoke, “I wouldn’t care what he had done. If I knew where he was, I would want to see him. If I found out he was in Utah, or Nebraska, or Oregon, I would hand the keys to this office to you and I would be off to find him. To see him. He’s the only family I have left in this whole world.”

  “You sayin’ I should go and see Johnny and Matt?”

  Tremain nodded. “That’s just what I’m saying. Johnny was almost killed in that attack on his ranch. Presuming it’s not tall tales, and really happened. Go see him. And while you’re at it, go to California and see your brother Matt. I can hold things together here until you’re back. And I have Ken who helps out. And if I really need help, you know Josh Wilson would be here with a half dozen boys from the Shannon Ranch.”

  Joe nodded. Old Josh, he was one of the most reliable men Joe had ever met. Ken was a tall kid, barely twenty, skinny and all arms and legs. Worked as a swamper at the saloon and tended horses at the livery. He filled in as a deputy sometimes.

  Tremain said, “Go. See your brothers. Your job will be waiting for you when you come back.”

  Joe leaned back in his chair. He was letting all of this sink in. “You really think I should?”

  Tremain said, “Truth be told, between friends, I think you should have long ago. They’re your brothers, Joe. If it was Morgan, I know what I’d be doing.”

  “You’d be heading on out.”

  Tremain nodded.

  Joe put some thought to it. “Thing is, it’s already half-way through September. It’s already getting cold up Montana way. I’ve lived winters in the mountains, but I’m not outfitted for it. Maybe I should head to California and see Matt, first. He can tell me how Johnny’s doing. Then in the spring, I’ll ride on up to Montana.”

  Tremain looked a little surprised. “You’re going to ride all that way on horseback? I figured you’d want to take a stage.”

  Joe shook his head. “I like to travel the land myself. Just me and my horse. Johnny was a
lways that way, too. He and Matt and I rode all the way from Pennsylvania to Kansas once, and from there to Texas, and then from there to California.”

  “The stories around cattle camps is you left Pennsylvania in search of your father’s killer. That really happen?”

  Joe nodded. “I’ll tell you the whole story, sometime. Now that you’ve got me talking.”

  In the morning, when the eastern sky was just starting to lighten, Joe got his horse from the livery and saddled up. He had no saddle bags, but he wrapped what little he had in the world into his bedroll, and tied it to the back of the saddle. He went out to a water trough and filled a canteen, and hung it from the saddle horn. Tremain had told him he could take a Winchester from the gun rack in the office, and it was now tucked into the saddle.

  He pushed a foot into the stirrup and swung up and onto the back of the horse, and with his scattergun draped across the pommel, he turned his horse between two buildings and off to the long low, arid hills beyond.

  With the flat of his hand he patted the lower left vest pocket, and felt the tin star in there. He had taken the badge off but had it with him. He was deputy marshal of Wardtown, Texas. Something he took very seriously. Once this was all done, he would be coming back.

  PART ONE

  The Return

  1

  Johnny McCabe reined up at the top of a low, grassy hill. The top was fairly flat, and the grass tall. At the northern side, though, the hill fell off sharply, like someone had taken a giant shovel and dug away part of it. Down below was a small house. A barn. A corral with a horse pacing about restlessly.

  Johnny swung out of the saddle and loosened the girth to let Thunder rest. It had been a long ride from Montana to these foothills in northeastern California. There had actually been little hard riding; for the most part, Johnny and Thunder had meandered their way through the mountains. Drinking from cold streams and sleeping out under the stars. Even still, Thunder seemed content to simply stand and chew on some grass.