Rebel Spurs by Andre Norton — Free Audiobook

1 01 - Chapter 1 26:26

EVEN THE COMING OF AN AUTUMNED DUSK could not subdue the color of this land. Shadows here were not gray or black. They were violet and purple. The crumbling adobe walls were laced by strings of crimson peppers, vivid in the torch and lantern light. It had been this way for days. Red and yellow, violet colors, he had hardly been aware, existed back in the cool green-silver-gray-brown of Kentucky. So this was to Baca. The rider shifted his weight in the saddle and gazed about him with watchful interest. Back in 59, this had been a flourishing town, well on its way to prominence in the southwest. The mines in the hills behind producing wealth, the fact that it was a watering place on two cross-country routes, the one from Tucson down into Sonora of Old Mexico, the other into California, had all fed its growth.

Then the war, the withdrawal of the army, the invasion of Sibley's Confederate forces, which had reached this far in the persons of Howard's Arizona Rangers, and most of all the raiding, vicious, deadly, and continual by Apaches and outlaws, had blasted to Baca. Now, in the fall of 1866, It was a third of what it had been, with a ragged fringe of dilapidated adobes crumbling back into the soil. Only this heart core was still alive in the dusk. Smell, a myriad of smells, some to tickle, a flat stomach, others to wrinkle the nose. Under the rider, the big stud moved, tossed his head, drawing the young man's attention from the town, back to his own immediate concerns. The animal he rode, the two he led, were, at first glance, far more noticeable than the dusty rider himself.

His saddle was cinched about the barrel of a big gray colt, one that could not have been more than five years old, but showed enough power and breeding to attract attention in any horse-conscious community. Here was a thoroughbred of the same blood, Which had pounded racetracks in Virginia and in Kentucky, to best all comers. Even now, after weeks on the trail, with a day's burden of alkali dust grimed into his coat, the stud was a beautiful thing, and as matched was the mare, on the lead rope, plainly a lady of family, perhaps the same line, since her coat was also silver. She crowded closer, nickered plaintively. She was answered by an anxious bray from the fourth member of the party. The mule bearing the trail pack was in ludicrous contrast to his own aristocratic companions.

His long head, with one entirely limp and flopping ear, was grotesquely ugly, his carcass beneath the pack a bone rack. All sharp angles and dusty hide. Looks, however, as his master could have proven, were deceiving. So, the rider's voice was husky from swallowing trail grit, but it was tuned to the soothing croon of a practice horse trainer. So, lady, just a little farther now, girl. From the one-story building on the rider's right, a man emerged. He paused to light a long Mexican cigarillo, and as he held the match to let the sulfur burn away, his eyes fell upon the stallion. A casual interest tightened into open appreciation as he stepped from under the porch overhang into the street. That is some horse, sir.

His voice was that of an educated gentleman. The lantern at the end of the porch picked out the fine ruffled linen of his shirt, a vest with the painted design of fighting cocks, and the wink of gold buttons. The rather extravagant color of his clothing Matched well with the town. I think so. The answer was short, and yet not discourteous. Again the mayor voiced her complaint, and the rider turned to the gentleman. There's a livery stable here, sir. Unconsciously he reverted, in turn, to the rather formal speech pattern of another place and time. The man in the painted vest had transferred his attention from the stallion to the mayor. Yes. Quickest way is down this alley. Toby Kells owns it. He's a tolerable vet, too.

She's near her time, ain't she? Yes. The rider raised one finger to the straight, wide brim of his low-crowned black hat. He was already turning his mount when the townsman added, No hotel here, stranger, but the Four Jacks serves a pretty good meal, and keeps a couple of beds for overnighters. "'You're welcome back, when you've settled the little lady.' "'She, Virginia Stock?' "'Kentucky,' the rider answered, and then his lips tightened into a compressed line. Was it a mistake to admit even that much? He would have to watch every word he said in this town.' He tugged gently at the lead rope and walked Shiloh ahead at a pace which did not urge Shadow to any great effort. The mule-Kroker fell in behind her, So that they were strung out in the familiar pattern which had been theirs clear from Texas.

Minutes later, her owner was rubbing down the fretful shadow, murmuring the soothing words to quiet her. The lean, gray-haired man who had ushered them into the stable stood eyeing the mayor's distended sides. "'I'd say, young fella, he didn't get here a mite too soon. No siree. She's due right quick.' Carrying a bloodful, I'm thinking. Yes, how soon? Tonight? Toby Kells made a quick examination. The mayor, after a first nervous start, stood easily under his sure and gentle hands. Late, maybe. First fold? Yes. Her owner hesitated and then added, You give me a hand with her? You bet, son. She's a pretty thing, and she's been a far piece, I'd say. Now you look here, boy. You sure look like you could take some currying and corn fodder under your belt, too.

You get over to the Four Jacks. Topham's got him a chiny cook in there, who serves up the best dang grub in this here town. Fill up your belly and take some ease. Then if we do have this little lady getting us up tonight, you'll be ready for it. I'll see to the stud and the mule. The colt's not a wild one." Kells surveyed Shiloh knowingly. No, I see'd he was gentle-trained when you come in. He ran his hand down Shiloh's shoulder, touching the brand Spur R. That ain't no outfit I heard tell of before. From Eastern Texas, that much was true. All three animals had been given the brand in the small Texas town where the wagon-train had assembled, and perhaps this was a time When he should begin building up the background, one Drew Kirby must present to Tabaka, Arizona Territory.

All right, I'll go eat. He picked up his saddlebags. You'll call me if... Sure, son, say. I don't rightly know your name. Drew Kirby. Oh, sure, Kirby. Toby Kells is a man of his word. If there's any reason to think you'll be needed, I'll send Callie along for you. Callie? At Kell's hail a boy swung down the loft ladder. He was wiry thin, with a thick mop of sun-bleached hair and a flashing grin. At the sight of Shiloh and Shadow he whistled. "'Now ain't they the purtiest things,' he inquired, "'of the stable at large. "'Bout the best stock we've had here "'since the last time Don Cazar brought in a couple of his'n.' "'Where'll I put your plunder, mister?' He was already loosening. Croker's pack.

"'You'll be staying over at the Jacks?' Drew glanced up to the hay-mow, from which Callie had just descended. "'Any reason why I can't bunk up there?' he asked Kells. "'None tall. Kirby, none tall. Know you'll want to be handy, like. Stow that there gear up there, Callie, and don't drop nothin'. Rest yourself easy, son." These here horses is going to be treated just like the good stuff they is. Croker also. Drew stopped by the mule, patted the long nose, gave a flip to the limp ear. He's good stuff, too, served in the cavalry. Kell studied the young man by the mule, cavalry saddle on the stud, two Colt pistols belted high and butt forward, and that military cord on his hat. Army boots, too. Delivery man knew the signs.

This was not the first veteran to drift into Tabaka, and he wouldn't be the last, either. Seems like half of both them armies back east didn't want to go home and sit down peaceful-like now that they was through with shooting at each other. No siree. A right big herd of them was trailing out here. And he thought he could put name to the color of the coat, this young'un. Had had on his back, too. Only asking more than a man volunteered to tell, that weren't neither manners nor whys. He gets the best, too, Kirby. Kells shifted a well-chawed tobacco-cud from one cheek to the other. He could trust Kells, Drew thought, but little of his concern over Shadow eased. He shouldered the saddlebags and made his way back down the alley, beginning to see the merit In the liverman's suggestion, food and a bath.

What he wouldn't give for a bath. Hay to sleep on was fine. He had had far worse beds during the past four years. But a hot bath, to be followed by a meal, which was not jerky, cornmeal, bitter coffee of trail cooking. His pace quickened into a trot, but slackened again as he neared the four jacks, and remembered all the precautions he must take in tobacco. In the big room of the cantina, oil lamps made yellow pools of light. The man in the painted vest was seated at a table, laying out cards in a complicated pattern of solitaire game. At one side, a round-faced Mexican in ornate, south-of-the-border clothing held a guitar across one plump knee, and now and then, plucking absentmindedly, at a single string, As he stared rapidly into space, a third man stood behind the bar, polishing thick glasses.

Greetings. As Drew stood blinking just within the doorway, the card player rose. He was a tall, wide-shouldered man, a little too thin for his height. Deep lines in his clean-shaven face bracketed his wide mouth. His curly hair was silver-blonde, and he had dark, deeply-set eyes. "'I'm Rhys Taupman, owner of this oasis,' he introduced himself. Drew Kirby. He must remember that always he was Drew Kirby, a Texan schooled with kinfolk in Kentucky, who served in the war under Forrest and was now drifting west, as were countless other rootless Confederate veterans. Actually, the story was close enough to the truth, and he had had months on the trail from San Antonio to Santa Fe, Then on to Tucson, to study up any small invented details.

He was Drew Kirby, Texan, not Drew Rennie, of Red Springs, Kentucky. For a man just off the trail, Kirby, the Four Jacks does have a few of the delights of civilization. A bath, one of Topham's dark eyebrows, so in contrast with his silver hair, slid up inquiringly, and he grinned. At Drew's involuntary but emphatic nod. One of nature's gifts to our fair city is the hot springs. Hamlikar. His hand met the top of the table in a sharp slap. The Mexican jerked fully awake and looked around. From the back of the cantina emerged a middle-aged negro. Yes, Mr. Reese, sir. Customer for you, Hamlikar. I would judge he wants the full treatment. This, Mr. Kirby. is the best barber, valet, and general aide to comfort in town, the sultan of our bath.

Hamlikar, Mr. Kirby would like to remove the layers of dust he has managed to pick up. Good luck to you both." Drew found himself laughing as he followed Hamlikar to the rear of the building. Topham had reason to be proud of his bath. Drew admitted some time later. A natural hot spring. Might be the base of luxury, but man's labor had piped the water into stone slab tubs and provided soap and towels. To sit and soak was a delight he had forgotten. He shampooed his unkept head vigorously, and allowed him to forget all worries, wallowing in the sheer joy of being really clean again. Hamlikar produced a clean shirt and drawers from the saddlebags, Even managed to work up a shadow of shine on the scuffed cavalry boots, and had beat the worst of the trail dust from the rest of the traveler's clothing.

Drew had redressed, except for his gun belt, when he heard a voice call from the next cubicle. Ham, ham! Get yourself in here, for I skin that black hide. Johnny. Topham's voice cut through the other's thick slur. "'You soak that rot gut out of you and mind your tongue while you do it.' "'Sure, sure, Reese.' The voice was pitched lower this time, but to Drew the tone was more mocking than conciliatory. Drunk or sober, that stranger did not hold very kindly thoughts of Topham, but that was none of a Kentuckian's business. "'Your hat, sir.' Hamlickard brought in the well-brushed headgear. Much more respectable-looking than it had been an hour ago. The cord on it glistened. Army issue. Brave gold bullion.

Made for a general's wearing. Drew straightened it, remembering. Sergeant Rennie of the Scouts. In from an independent foray into enemy-held Tennessee. Reporting to the old man himself. General Bedford Forrest. And Forrest saying, We don't give medals, Sergeant. But I think a good soldier might just be granted a birthday present without anyone getting too excited about how military that is. Then he had jerked the cord off his own hat and given it to Drew. It was something big to remember when you were only nineteen and had been soldiering three years. Three years with a dogged army that refused to be beaten. That hat cord, the spurs on his boots, They were all he had brought home from the war, save a tough body and a mind he hoped was as hard.

Mighty pretty hat-trimmin' that, sir, Hamlikar admired. Mighty big man wore it once. Drew was still half in the past. What do I owe you more than thanks of a mighty tired man you've turned out brand new again? He smiled and was suddenly all boy. For a bit, sir. And it was a pleasure to do for a gentleman. It truly was. Come again, sir, come again. Drew went down the corridor, his spurs answering with a chiming ring each time his heels met planking. Worn at Chapultepec by a Mexican officer, they had been claimed as spoils of war in 47 by a Texas Ranger. And in 61 the Ranger's son, Anson Kirby, had jingled off in them to another war. Then Kirby had disappeared during that last scout in Tennessee, vanishing into nowhere when he fell wounded from the saddle, smashing into a bushwhacker's hideout.

On Sunday in May of 65, back in Gainesville, when Forrest's men had finally accepted surrender and the deadness of defeat, a Union trooper had wore those spurs in the church, and Boyd Barrett had sold his horse the same day To buy back those silver bits because they knew what they meant to his cousin, Drew. Now here Drew was, half the continent away from Gainesville and Tennessee, wearing Anse's spurs and half of Anse's name, to find a father he had not known was alive until last year. The Kentuckian was sure of only one thing right now. He was not going to enter a town or a stretch of country. Where Hunt Rennie was the big man, and claimed to be Rennie's unknown son. Maybe later he could come to a decision about his action, but first he wanted to be sure.

There might well be no place for a Drew Rennie in Hunt Rennie's present life. They were total strangers, and perhaps it must be left that way. There was no reason for him to claim the kinship. He was independent. Drew Kirby had a mule and two good horses. Maybe three by tomorrow. Aunt Marianna had insisted that he accept part of the Maddock estate, even though his Kentucky grandfather had left him penniless. He'd made his choice without hesitation. The Colt Shiloh, the Mayor's Shadow, and she bred the storm cloud for what should be a prize fold. His aunt had made him take more. Gold in his money belt, enough to give him a start in the West. He was his own man, not Rennie's son, unless he chose.

Two more lamps had been lighted in the cantina. Drew sat down at a table. There was a swish of full skirts, and he looked up at a girl. She smiled, as if she liked what she saw of this brown-faced stranger, with quiet, disciplined features and eyes older than his years. You like, senor, tequila, whiskey, food? "'Food, senorita. You see a most hungry man.' She laughed, and then frowned anxiously. "'Ah, but senor, this is a time when the cupboard is, as you would say, bare. When the wagons come—' "'Then what a difference, now? Tortillas, frijoles, maybe some fruit. Sweet for the tongue, like wine in the throat. Perhaps an egg?' "'To me that is a feast.' Drew fell into the formal speech, which seemed natural here.

You see one who has done his own trail cooking too long. Ah, El Probete, poor man, surely there will be an egg. She was gone, and Drew began covertly to study the other men in the room. In any western town the cantina or saloon was the meeting place for masculine society. Even if Hunt Rennie did not appear bodily, In the Four Jacks tonight, Drew could pick up information about his father merely by keeping open ears. As far away as Santa Fe, he had heard of Rennie's range, and Don Cazar, the name the Mexican, had given its owner, Hunt Rennie. Escaped from a Mexican prison in 1847, believing his wife and the son he had never seen to be dead, Hunt Rennie had gone west. In contrast to the tragedy of his personal life, whatever Rennie had turned his hand to in the new territory had prospered.

A prospector he had grub-staked found the Ora Cruz, one of the richest mines in the Tubaca Hills. Rennie owned two freighting lines, one carrying goods to California, the other up from Sonora, and his headquarters in the fertile Santa Cruz Valley was a ranch Which was also a fort, a fort even the Apaches avoided after they had suffered two overwhelming defeats there. That was Rennie's range, cultivated fields, fruit orchards, manadas of fine horses. Don Cazar supplied Tucson and the army posts with vegetables and superb hams. He had organized a matchless company of Pima Indian scouts after the army pulled out in 61. Had fought Apaches, but had sided with neither Union nor Confederate forces. During the war years, he had more or less withdrawn within the borders of the range, offering refuge to settlers and miners, fleeing Indian attacks.

Don Cazar was a legend now, and a man did not quickly claim kinship with a legend. Want to room Kirby? Topham paused beside his table. "'No, I have to stay close to the mare.' "'Yes, I can understand that. Kells is good with horses, so you needn't worry. Ever race that colt of yours?' "'Not officially,' Drew smiled. There was that lieutenant with the supply wagons. The man hadn't talked so loudly about Johnny Rebs. After Shiloh showed his heels to the Roan, the soldiers had bragged up. This is a sporting town when the wagons come in, and they're due tomorrow. Johnny Shannon just rode in to report. Might be some racin. You aim to stay on in Tabaka? Have to wait until Shadow can trail again. How's the prospect for a job?

With cattle, horses, teaming? Horses, I guess. Hodankazar, Rennie, runs the best manadas. You might hit him for work. He'll be riding in to meet the wagons. Karmicita, did you bring all that was left of the supplies? Topham's quizzical eyebrows lifted in a greeting to the waitress's loaded tray. I'd say, young man, that you are facing a full-time job now, getting all of that inside of you. Drew ate steadily, consuming eggs and beans, tortillas, and fruit. Topham joined three men at the next table. Substantial town citizens, Drew judged. The owner of the cantina raised his glass. Gentlemen, I give you another successful trading trip. Saw Johnny ride in, one of the men returned. Kid seems to be settling down, ain't he?

That ought to be good news for Rennie. One believes in reformations when they are proven by time, Senor Cahill. The man wearing rich but somber Spanish clothing replied, It sure must go hard with a man to have a son turn out a wild one," commented the third. Drew's cup was at his lips, but he did not drink. Whose son? Rennie's? No son by blood, that much comfort. Don Cazar has. But foster ties are also strong, and the boy is still very young. A rattler with one button on the tail carries as much poison as a ten-button one. Renny ought to cut losses and give the kid the boot. The way he's going, he could involve Hunt in a real mess," Cahill said. You are Don Cazar's good friend, Don Rees, his compadre of many years.

Can you not do something? Don Lorenzo, all men have blind spots, and Johnny Shannon is Renny's. Bob Shannon helped free Hunt out of the Mex' prison in the war and was killed doing it. Soon as Hunt set up here, he sent for the boy, and tried to give him a father. It's a great pity he has no child of his own blood. I have seen him stand here in Tabaka, giving toys and candy to the little ones. Yet he has only this wild one under his roof, and perhaps that Juanito will break his heart in the end. Drew put down his cup. It was very hard not to turn and ask questions. Dropping some coins on the table, he rose and started back to the stable, to the world of Shiloh and Shadow, where he was unable to betray Drew Rennie.

But there was so much Drew Kirby must learn, and soon...

2 02 - Chapter 2 22:14

Two lighted lanterns hung from pegs along the center of the stable, and Callie had mounted a barrel to put up a third as Drew entered. There were the soft, peaceful sounds of horses, crunching fodder, hoofs rustling in straw. Shadow turned her head. And, nickered as Drew came up to her box stall. She was answered by a blowing from Shiloh, and a bray out of Croker. "'It's all right, girl, pretty lady.' Drew fondled her mane, stroked the satin-smooth arch of neck. Callie dropped from his barrel perch. "'She sure is right purty, Mr. Kirby. Mr. Kells said as to tell you. He's sleepin' on the cot in the tack room over there, should you be needin' him.' Callie pointed. Me, I'm bedding down in the last stall.

I put your gear up right over here, so you can hear if she gets to moving. Thanks. Drew felt in a pocket. Tossed Callie the coin his fingers found. The boy caught the piece, his eyes round as he looked at it. Lordy, thanks, Mr. Kirby. You must be near as shiny as Don Bizarre or Mr. Toppin. SHINee? Callie laughed. Silver, SHINee. Ain't too many men as goes round, Tupacca, throwing out good money that-a-way. Lest it's ringing down on the bar, or sliding across some table, cause they found out how they was holding jacks against some other fellow's kings. You want anything? You just holler, Mr. Kirby. Mr. Drew thought he did not have the advantage of Callie. By more than four or five years. Oh, Captain Kirby, maybe.

Or Lieutenant. Johnny Shannon, now. He was a lieutenant with Howard's Rangers. Callie gave Drew a shrewd, measuring look. Sergeant, Drew corrected automatically, and then asked, How did you know I've been in the Army? Will you wear those two shootin' irons Army style? Belted high and butt to front. Must use a flip-hand draw. As do all the horse soldiers. Listen, Mr. Kirby, if you rode with the Rebs, you'd better keep your lip buttoned up when the Bluebellies hit town. There's been a pile of fightin', and folks is gettin' mad about it. Bluebellies? Drew was wrenched back months, a year, by that old army slang. Union troops stationed here? He had unconsciously tensed, his body responding, nerve and muscle.

To pass training and alarms. But there were no Yanks or Rebs any more. No riders or marchers in blue and gray. Just United States troops. There's a garrison out to the Mesa camp. And Captain Bayliss, he don't take kindly to Rebs. You see, it's this way. Out in the breaks, there's a bunch of Rebs, leastways they claim is how they're Rebs, still holding out. They hit and run. Raiding ranches and mines, they held up a coach a while back, and so far they've ridden rings round the captain. Now he thinks as how any reb blowing in the town could be one of them coming to sniff out some good pickings. So anyone as can't explain himself proper to the captain gets locked up out at the camp till he can. Trifle high-handed, ain't he?

Well, the captain's for law and order, and he's army. But folks ain't likin' it too much. So far, he's been doin' it, though. Drew frowned. So even this far away from the scene of old battles, the war still smoldered. The black bitterness of defeat was made harder by the victor. Drew's hand rubbed across the bulge beneath his shirt. In one pocket of the money belt were his papers, among them the parole, written out at Gainesville, Which could prove he had ridden with General Forrest's command, far removed from any Arizona guerrilla force. But to produce that would change Drew Kirby to Drew Rennie, and that he did not want to do. I rode with General Forrest. Attached to General Buford's scouts, he said absently.

General Forrest? Callie glowed. Lordy, Mr. Kirby. That's sure something. It sure is. Only don't be sayin' that around Captain Bayliss, neither. He has'em a big hate for General Forrest. Seems like Bayliss was a colonel once, till the general outsmarted him back east. And there was a big smoke-up about it. They cut the Captain's spurs for him, and he ended the war out here. Now he ain't no patient man. He's the kind as uses his hooks hard when he's ridin'. You know... You sure can tell a lot about a man when you give a look at his horse after he's come off the trail. That there Shiloh cult of yours, and this here lady horse, and that old mule, any one can see as how they always been handled nice and easy.

They ain't got no spite against nobody as wants to rub them down and give them a feed. But some horses will get brung in here. They's white-eyed and randy, does you give them a straight stare. For that there's always a reason. Mostly you can see what it is when you look good and steady at the men who was riding them. Drew laughed. Glad I passed your test, Callie. Guess I'll turn in now. Been a long day traveling. Sure thing. And from up there you can hear this little old mare. Does she need you? The Kentuckian's pack had been hoisted into the mall, and Callie had even humped up the fragrant hay. To mattress his bedroll. A window was opened to the night, and as Drew stretched out wearily, he could hear the distant tinkle of a guitar, perhaps from the four jacks.

Somewhere, a woman began to sing, and the liquid Spanish words lulled him to sleep. He roused suddenly, his hand flashing under his head, before he returned to full consciousness, fingers tightening on the colt he had placed there. Not the mayor, no. Rather the pound of running feet and then a cry. No, senor, no. No es verdad. It is not true. Teodoro. He mean no harm. Drew scrambled to the window, out in the alley below, three figures reeled in a circle of light afforded by the door lantern. The Kentuckian marked the upward swing of a quirt-lash, saw a smaller shape fling up an arm. In a vain attempt to ward off the blow. Another. The one who cried out was belaboring the flogger with empty fists, and the voice was that of a girl.

To slide down the loft ladder was again nearer instinct than planned action. Shiloh snorted as Drew's boots wrapped on the stable floor. The Kentuckian had no idea for the reason for that fight, but he ran out with a vague notion. That an impartial referee was needed. "'You there, what's going on?' Sergeant Rennie came to life again in the snapped demand. The one who fled the court came up against the side of the building, almost shoulder to shoulder with Drew. And he was only a boy about Callie's age, his black hair flopping over eyes wide with shock and fright. Drew's hand moved, and the lantern light glinted plainly. On the barrel of the colt. For a moment they were all still, as if the sight of the weapon had frozen them.

The attacker faced Drew directly. He was young and handsome, if you discount it, a darkening bruise already puffing under one eye, a lip cut and swelling, a scowl twisting, rather heavy brows, and making an ugly square of his mistreated mouth. And who the devil are you? His voice was thick and slurred, Drew guessed, that he had not only been in a fight, but that he was partly drunk. Yet, as he faced the stranger eye to eye, the Kentuckian was as wary as he had been when bellying down a Tennessee Ridge crest to scout a Yankee Railroad blockhouse. He knew what he fronted. This was more than a drunken bully. A really dangerous man. The queer little moment of silence lengthened, shutting the two of them up alone.

Drew could not really name the emotion he felt. Deliberately, he tried to subdue the sensation as he turned to the girl. What's the matter? At first glance, he might have thought her a boy, for she wore hide-breeches and boots, a man's shirt now hanging loosely about her hips. She jerked her head. And a thick braid flopped from under her wide-brimmed hat. "'Señor, por favor, please. We have done no wrong. We are the Triffins, Teodoro and me. Teodoro, he finds Senor Juanito's purse in the road. He follows to give it back. He is not a bandido. He is not a spy, a spy one. We are Mustangers. Ask of Don Rees, of Senor Kells.' Why, Senor Juanito, do you say Teodoro spy on you when you hit him with a whip?

Not thief, not spy. The boy beside Drew dropped the wheeled hand from his face. The man who says Teodoro, Triffin, is Ladron, bad one. Him I kill. Drew's left arm swept out across the boy's chest, pinning him back against the stable. "'Now, what's your story?' the Kentuckian asked the man he fronted. "'And just what's all this smoke about?' Kells came out. "'You, Shannon. What are you doing here? Been drinking again, fighting, too, by the looks of you.' "'Señor Kells.' The girl caught at the older man's arms. "'Por favor, senor. We are not thieves, not spies. We come after Senor Juanito,' because he dropped his purse." Then he sees Teodoro coming. He not listened. He beat on him with Quirt. You know we're honest peoples.

Now then, Fakita, don't you get so upset, gal. She was wailing aloud, making no effort to wipe away the tears running down her cheeks. Johnny, what kind of game you trying? You know these kids are straight. Them and their old man come to work the range for wild ones on Rennie's own askin'. Take a quirk to the kid, huh? Kells' voice slid up the scale. You sure have bought yourself a snootful tonight. Now you just walk yourself out of here on the bounce. I'm doing the saying of what goes on on my property. You do a lot of saying, Kells. The scowl was gone. Shannon's battered mouth was actually smiling. But Drew decided he liked the scowl better than the smile. And the tone of the voice accompany in it.

Some men ought to put a hobble on their tongues. Sure I know these young whelps, and their paw, too, sniffing round where they ain't wanted. And mustangers ain't above throwing a sticky loop when they see a horse worth it. We ain't blind on the range. His head swung a little, so he was looking at the girl. You'd better hold that in mind, gal. Double our horses. "'Have come up missing lately. It's easy to run a few prime heads south to do some moonlight tradin' at the border, and we don't take kindly to losin' good stock.' The boy lunged against Drew's pinioning arm. "'Now he says we're horse thieves. Tell that to us before the Don Cazar.' Shannon curled the quirt lash about his wrist. "'Don't think I won't, Mex.

He don't like havin' his colt crop whittled down. You.' Those blue eyes, brilliant, yet oddly shallow and curtained, met Drew's for the second time. Don't know who you are, stranger, but you had no call to mix in. I'll be seeing you, kind of free with a gun, leastwise at showing it. As quick to back up your play? Try me. The words came out of Drew's mouth before he thought. Why had he said that? He had never been one. To pick a fight. Or take up a challenge. What was there about Shannon that prodded Drew this way? He had met the Gamecock breed before, and had never known the need to bristle at their crowing. Now he was disturbed that Shannon could prick him so. Odd. The other had been successfully turned from his purpose here, yet now, as he swung around and walked away down the alley, Drew was left with a nagging doubt.

A feeling that in some way or other, Shannon had come off even in this encounter. But how and why? Teodoro spat. His sister tugged at Kel's sleeve. It is not true what he said. Why does he wish to make trouble? Listen, gal, and you too, Teodoro. Just keep clear of Johnny Shannon when he's on the prod that way. I've known that kid since he didn't have muscle enough to pull a gun. Lessie took both hands to the job. But he's not needin' any two hands to unholster now. And he's drinkin' a lot. Mean, ugly drunk he is. Something must have riled him good to-night. In the cantina there was a soldier from the camp. Faquita volunteered. They call names he and Senor Juanito fight. Don Rees, he put them both out in the street.

"'Señor Juanita, he falls, drops purse. Teodoro picks it up, and we follow. We try to give it back. Señor Juanita, yell, spy. Hit him with whip. That is the truth. Por Dios, the truth.' "'Yeah, sounds just like Johnny these days. Him with a snootful and somebody yelling reb and yank. Some men can't forget and don't seem to want to. Johnny sure takes it hard, being on the losing side.' Turned him dirt mean. Now, you kids, you stayin' in town? See, Fakita nodded vigorously with Tia Maria. Then you get there and stay clear of Johnny Shannon, sobby. No more trouble. Si, Senor Kells. You, Senor, she spoke to Drew. To you we owe a big debt. Come, Teodoro. She caught at her brother and pulled him away.

What makes a kid go sour? Kells asked, of the shadows beyond rather than of Drew. Johnny weren't no real trouble, for he skinned off to ride with Howard. Sure, he was always a wild one, but no more than a lot of kids. And he'd answer the lead rain. Course, we don't know what happened to him in Texas after the big retreat the Rebs made out of here. Could be he learned a lot that was no good. Now he sops up whiskey when he hits town. and picks fights, like he didn't get his belly full of that in the war. You can't never tell how a kid's gonna turn out. Hey, Mr. Kirby, you better get in here. Callie hailed from the stable. The mayor, she's... Drew jammed the colt under his belt and ran. The scent of hay, of grain, of horse.

Drew's head rolled on the pillow, improvised from hay and blanket, As Sun lay hot across his face, he rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, and then came fully awake to remember the night before. It took only a minute to get down the ladder into Shadow's stall, where a broom tail jiggled up and down, above absurdly long baby legs and small rounded haunches. Shadow's small daughter breakfasted. Callie squatted on heels nearby, Watching the process benignly. "'Ain't she about the best-favored filly you ever saw?' he asked. "'How come all your horses is greys? Shiloh her paw?' Drew shook his head. "'No, her sire's storm-cloud. But all that line are greys. This storm-cloud, he a running horse?' "'About to running his horse?

In his part of the country, Callie. This filly ought to pick up her heels some.' If she takes after her dam and sire, what you naming her? Up to that moment, Drew had not really thought about it. The crisp air blowing into the stable, carrying something beside the scents of the town, gave him a suggestion. How about sage, Callie? The boy thought seriously, then nodded. Yeah, sage. That's gray, and it's purty. Smells good, too. Drew pulled up his shirt. Dug into the pocket of the money belt. For the horse papers. Got a pencil, or better, pen and ink around here anywhere? Mr. Kells, he keeps ledgers. Over in the tack room. Got some ink and a pen there. How come you need that? You ain't makin' out no bill of sale on her already, are you?

Callie was shocked. Hardly. Just want to put her down right and proper on the tally sheet. The boy followed to watch Drew make the record on the margin of Shadow's papers. As the Kentuckian explained, Callie was deeply interested. "'You mean as how you can tell way back? Just what horses bred your horses? That's sure something, round here. We know's a good horse, but we ain't always sure of his paw, not if he's wild stuff.' "'Lots of wild horses hereabouts, then?' "'Sure.' Some just Mustangs, and others good stuff gone wild, run off by the Patches and broke loose, or got away from a wet-horse band. Wet-horse band? Callie glanced at him a little sharply. How come you ain't knowin' about wet horses?

Heard tell, as they have him, that same trouble down in Texas way. But I don't come from the border country. Well, Texas is sure. A great big piece of country, so maybe you don't know about them river tricks. Wet horses. They're horses what has run off up here, driven down to the border, where they're swapped for horses what some mechs banditos have thrown a sticky loop over. Then the mechs take them Anglo horses south and sell them, where their brands ain't gonna get nobody in noose trouble. And the stolen mechs horses? They drove up here and maybe sold to some of the same fellows what lost the others. Horses get themselves lost along them back-country trails, specially if they's pushed hard.

So them strays join up with the wild ones. If in a mustanger can rope one and bring it in, well, if it's a good one, maybe you'll get a reward from the man what's lost him. Heard tell that Don Cazar He set some good rewards on a couple of studs, as was run off the range this summer. Don Cazar has good horses. About the best in these here parts. He runs them on the range, the old style. Stud and twenty, twenty-five mares together, in a mandana. All one color to a band. They sure is a grand sight. Band of roans, then one of duns, and some blacks. He's got one mandana. Of all Gros, sell some of them to the Army. Drives more, clear to California. And the old Dons down in Sonora come up once in a while to pick them out some fancy saddle stock.

He sure would enjoy seeing these grays of yours, if any ever wanted to sell. Don Cazar give you top price. But I'm not selling. Drew folded the piece of paper he'd been waving to dry the ink and put it back. In the belt pocket. What's that? He could almost believe he heard an army bugle, but the call it sounded was unlike any cavalry signal he had known. Callie was already on his way to the door. Wagon-train come, and he cried as he ran out. Drew lingered by Shadow's box. The filly was resting in the straw. Her matchstick legs folded under her, and the mare was munching the extra feet of oats. The Kentuckian had tipped in for her. He could hear the sound of other running feet outside. It would seem that all Tubaca was turning out to welcome the wagon train of traders from the South.

Drew's curiosity got the better of him. He went on out to the plaza.

3 03 - Chapter 3 22:25

Only a well-armed and convoyed set of wagons, with a highly experienced and competent master, could dare travel the Apache-infested trail these days. The first of the freighters, pulled by a sixteen-mule team, fairly burst into the plaza, outriders fanning about it. One of the mounted men was dressed in fringed buckskin, his shoulder-length hair and bushy black beard, the badge of a frontier already passing swiftly into history. He rode a big black mule and carried a long-barreled rifle, not in the saddle boot, but resting across the horn, as if even here in Tabaka there might be reason for instant action. The mule trotted on to the middle of the plaza. Then the weapon pointed skyward as its owner fired into the air, voicing a whoop as wild as a rebel yell from the throat of a charging Texas trooper.

He was answered by cries and shouts from the gathering crowd as five more wagons, each with a trailer hooked to its main bulk, pulled in around the edge of the open area until the center of the town was full and the din of brain mules was deafening. Drew retreated to the roofed entrance of the four Jacks. The extra step of height there enabled him to get a good look at two more horsemen pushing past the end wagon. Both wore the dress of Mexican gentlemen, their short jackets glistening with silver braid and embroidery. Their bridles, horse gear, and saddles were rich in scrolls and decorations of the same metal. Navajo blankets lay under the saddles. And serapis were folded over the shoulder of one rider, tied behind the cantle of the other.

They pulled up before the cantina, and one man took the reins of both mounts. If the rider's clothing and horse furnishings were colorful, the horses themselves were equally striking. One was a chestnut, a warm, well-groomed red, but the other drew stared. In all his years about the stables and breeding farms of Kentucky, and throughout his travel since, he had never seen a horse like this. Its coat was pure gold, a perfect match to one of the eagles in his money belt. But the silky locks of mane and tail were night black. Its breeding was plainly Arab, and it walked with a delicate pride as gracefully as a man might foot a dance measure. Drew had a difficult time. Breaking his gaze from the horse to the man dismounting.

The ranchero was tall, perhaps an inch or so taller than Drew, and his body had the leanness of the men who worked the range country, possessing, too, a lithe youthfulness of carriage, until one looked directly into the sun-brown face he could pass as a man still in his late twenties. But he was older, perhaps a decade older than that, Drew thought. Two high and prominent cheekbones with slight hollows below them, and a mouth-tight set made more of strength of will and discipline of feeling than conventional good looks. Yet his face was not easily forgotten, once seen. Black hair was pepper-salted for a finger-wide space above his ears, which were fronted by long sideburns, and black brows were straight above dark eyes.

In spite of his below-the-border dress and his coloring, he was unmistakably Anglo, just as the man looping both horses' reins to the rack was Mexican. So you're still wearing your hair in good order. No trouble this trip? Topham had come to the door of the cantina, his hand outstretched. Welcome back, Hunt. Paw, the Mexican spat. Where is there one Indio? Who was able to face Don Cazar on his own ground. The folly of that they learned long ago. Don Cazar smiled. The mask of aloofness was wiped away, as if he were ten years younger and twenty years less responsible than he had been only seconds earlier. And if they did not beware our rifles, Bartolomo here would talk them to death. Is that not so, amigo?

His speech was oddly formal. As if he were using a language other than his own. But there was a warmth to the tone which matched the sudden and surprising smile. Topham's arm went about the shoulders under the black and silver jacket, drawing Don Cazar into the light, music, and excitement of the cantina. While Drew watched, the stouter back of Bartolomo cut off his first good look at his father. So that was Don Cazar. Hunt Rennie. Drew did not know what he had expected of their first meeting. Now he could not understand why he felt so chilled and lost. He had planned it this way. No demands, no claims, on a stranger. Freedom to make decisions about when or how he would see his father. That was the only path he could take.

But now he turned slowly away from that open door. The light, the laughter, and singing. and walked back toward the stable, loneliness cutting into him. Tubac had slumbered apathetically before. Now the town was wide awake. In a couple of days the wagon train would head on north to Tucson, but now the activity in the plaza was a mixture of market day and fiesta. Small traders from Sonora took advantage of the protection afforded by Don Cazar's outriders, and had trailed along with her own products, now being spread out and hawked. Parrots shrieked from homemade cages. Brightly woven fabrics were draped to catch the eye. As he wandered about, viewing cactus syrup sweet, brown panocha candy, fruit dried-meat blankets, saddles, Drew was again aware of the almost strident color of this country.

He fingered appreciatively. A horned goblet carved with intricate figures of gods his Anglo eyes did not recognize. The hum of voices, the bray of mules, the b'ying and nighing of sheep and goats, kept up a roar to equal surf on a sea-coast. Afternoon was fast fading into evening, but Tabanka, aroused from the post-noon siesta, was in tumult. A fighting cock tethered to a cart-wheel, Stretched its neck to the utmost in attempt to peck at Drew's spurs. He laughed, attracted, wrenched out of his own private world. The smell of spicy food, of fruit, of animals and people, the clamor, the sights. Drew rounded one end of a wagon and stepped abruptly into yet another world in time. All the stories which had been dinned warningly into his ears since he had left the Mississippi Now brought his hand to one of the colts at his belt.

Most of the half-dozen men, squatting on their heels about a fire, were three-quarters bare, showing dusty brown bodies, two of dirty calico shirts loose above hide breech clouts. Dark-brown eyes, as unreadable as Johnny Shannon's, surveyed Drew, but none of the Indians moved or spoke. Common sense took over. And Drew's hand dropped from the gun, but... Hostiles would not be camping peacefully here in the heart of town. He could not be facing the wild Apaches or Navajos. But these were the first Indians he had seen this close since he had ridden out of Texas. "'Something buggin' ya, boy?" Drew's war-trained muscles took over. He was in a half-crouch. The colt flipped over and out, pointing into the shadows.

Where the newcomer emerged. Then the Kentuckian flushed and slammed his weapon back into the holster. This was the buckskin man who had whooped the train into town that morning. Mind quick to show your iron, ain't ya? There was a chill in the question, and Drew saw that the long rifle was still held at alert by its owner. Catfootin' up on a man ought to make you expect somethin' of a reception, Drew countered. Yep. Guess some men. They sure got them a belly full of lead doing that. To Drew's surprise, the other was now grinning. You hunting someone? No, just looking around. Drew longed to ask some things himself, but hesitated. Frontier etiquette was different from Kentucky custom. It was safer to be quiet when not sure.

Wow, there's plenty to see tonight. Right enough. Me, I'm Crow Fenner. I ride scout for the train, and these here, they're Rennie's Pimas. One of them is running the trail this trip. So these were the famous Pima scouts. No wonder they took their ease into Tabaka Plaza. Every man, woman, and child, in those adobe buildings, had reason to be thankful for their skill and cunning. The web of protection Rennie's Pima scouts had woven in this river valley. "'I'm Kirby. Drew Kirby.' He hastened to match one introduction with another. "'This is my first time in the Valley.' "'From the East, huh?' "'Texas.' "'Texas.' Something, in a way, Fenner repeated that, made it sound not like a confirmation but a question.

Or was Drew overly suspicious? After all, as Callie had agreed last night, the late Republic of Texas was a very large strip of country. Housing a multitude of native sons, from the planting families of the Brazos to the ranchers and crude cabins of the Brasado. There were Texans and Texans, differing greatly in speech, manners, and background, and one did not ask intimate questions of a man riding west of the Pecos. Too often he might have come hunting a district where there was longer distance between sheriffs. What a man volunteered about his past was accepted as the truth. "'Rode a far piece, then,' Fenner commented. "'Me, I've been trailing round this here country since the moon was two-bit size, and I ain't set my moccasins on all of it yet.

There's parts maybe even the engines ain't seed neither. You just out of the Army, son?' Drew nodded. Apparently he could not escape that part of his past. And there was no reason to deny it. If an' you be hunting a job, Don Cazar, he's always ready to hire on wagon guards. Any young fellow what knows how to handle a gun, he's welcome. Can't leave Tabaka, at least for now. Have me a mare over in the livery that just fold. I'm not moving until she's ready to travel. Must be right good stock, Fenner observed. Me? I has me a riding mule. "'As can smell Apaches two miles off. Two, three times that mule var saved my skin for me. Got old Tar when he turned up in a wild horse corral the Mustanger set over in the Red River country.

"'I saw him when you rode into town, good-looking animal.' Crow Fenner nodded vigorously. "'Sure is, sure is. Don Cazar, he's partial to good stock, favors Tar, too.' The Don. Has him a high-steppin' hoss. Every horse thief in this here territory'd like to run off. Bright yellow. Saw that one, too. Unusual coloring, all right. He put a white stud, white as milk, to run with some light buckskin mares, back before the war. First colt out of that there breeding was that Oro hoss. Never got another like him. He's special. Shows his heels good, too. They're gonna race him out on the flats tomorrow, if anyone is fool enough to say, as he has a horse, as can beat Oro. There's always some greenhorn as thinks he has."

Oh! Drew wondered aloud. The black-and-gold horse was beautiful, and plainly of good breeding. That he was also a runner was not out of the question. But that Oro could best Gray Eagle aerial stock on the track, Drew doubted. There were unbroken records set on eastern tracks by horses in Shiloh's direct bloodline, and the local talent that had been matched against Oro in the past had probably not been much competition. The Kentuckian began to speculate about a match between the Gray Stallion and the horse Fold on the Arizona Range. Yup, we'll see some race. Does anyone turn up with a horse to match Oro? One of the shirted Indians rose to his feet. With rifle sloped over forearm, he padded into the dark.

Fenner's relaxed posture tensed into alert readiness. His head turned, his attitude now one of listening concentration. Drew strained to see or hear what lay beyond, but the noise from the plaza and torchlight made a barrier for eye and ear. Fenner's rifle barrel dropped an inch or so. He stood easy again. Drew heard a jingle of metal, the creak of saddle leather, the pound of shot hoofs. Soldiers, Fenner sniffed, wondered what they'd do in hittin' town now. Well, that ain't no hair off my skull. Me, I'm gonna get Tar's treat, promised him some time back. He could have a bait of oats, oats and salt, and just a smidgen of corn cake. That there mule? Likes to favor his stomach. Kells. You ought to have some of those vittles put together right about now.

This mare of yourn. What's so special, young fella? Me, I'd like to see a horse. What's got to be took care of like she was a bang-up lady?" He put two fingers to his lips and whistled. A mule head, attached to a rangy mule body, weaved forward to follow dog-at-heel fashion behind the scout. A squad of bluecoats was riding in, an officer and six men. They threaded their way to the cantina, where the officer dismounted and went inside. The troopers continued to sit their saddles and regard the scene about them wistfully. "'Looks like a duty patrol,' Fenner remarked. "'Maybe Captain Bayless. He's getting some biggity ideas of how it's up to him to police this here town.'" Does he start to crow too loud?

Don Cazar or Reese Topham will cut his spurs. Maybe he sets up the war shield, and does the shouting back thar in front of all them soldier boys. In this town he ain't no gold-laced general. Troops in a town not friendly? Drew asked. The soldiers, they ain't no trouble. Some of them have their heads screwed on straight, and know what they're doing or trying to do. But a lot of them officers now, they come out here with biggity ideas about how to handle engines, thinking they know all there's to be known about fighting, and them never facing up a Comanche in war paint, let alone hunting Patches. Patches, they know this here country like it was part of their own bodies. Can say howdy, and how's all the folks, bub, to every lizard and snake in the rocks.

Ain't no army gonna pull him out and make him fight white man style. Don Cazar, he goes hunting him when they come bothering him and does it right. But he knows you think injin, you live injin, you eat injin, you smell injin when you do. They don't leave no more trail than an ant stepping high, lest they want you should follow them into a nice ambush, as they has all figured out. Put Grayfeather and his Pimas on him. Then leg it till your belly is near meetin' your backbone, and you is all one big tired ache. Ifin' you can drink sand and keep on footin' it over red-hot rocks when you is nigh, bag of bones, then maybe, just maybe, you can jump in Apache, Comanches now, and Cheyennes in Kiowa and Sioux ride out the storm at you, guns and arrows all shootin', wantin' to count coup on a man.

By hitting him personal. But the Apaches ain't wasting himself that way. Nope. Get behind a rockin' ambush. Put the whole hellfire country to work for them. That's how the Apache does his fighting. And the spittin' polish officers who come from eastward, they got to learn that. Only sometimes they ain't good at learning, and they gets learned good and proper. Hey, Kells. They were at the stable, and Fennerd lifted a hand, palm out, in greeting to the liverymen. Here's old Tar wanting a special grub. Drew went on to Shiloh's stall. Rhys Topham, the Spaniard, Don Lorenzo, who had been in the cantina last night, the stout Mexican Bartolome, and Don Cazar himself were all there before him. Here he is now.

Rhys Topham waved a hand at Drew. This is Mr. Kirby from Texas. You have a fine horse there, Kirby. The mare, too. Eastern stock, I would judge. Perhaps Kentucky breeding? Rennie asked. Drew was taught inside. To say the wrong thing. To admit the line of that breeding might be a bad slip. Yet he could only evade, not lie directly. Yes, Kentucky. He answered the first words his father had ever addressed to him. And the line? To be too evasive would invite suspicion. However, the gray eagle get was in more than one Kentucky stable. Eclipse. Drew set back the pedigree several equine generations. Shiloh tossed his head, looked over his shoulder at Drew, who entered the stall, and began quieting the stallion, with hands drawn gently over the back.

and up the arch of the neck. The mare also? Don Cazar continued. Yes. The Kentuckian's answer sounded curt in his own ears, but he could not help it. This eclipse, amigo? Don Lorenzo turned to Rennie for enlightenment. He was a notable horse. See, of the messenger line? But a gray of that breeding, Don Cazar's forefinger, Ran nail point along his lower lip, aerial blood, perhaps. Drew busied himself adjusting Shiloh's hackamore. This was getting close. Hunt Rennie had lived in Kentucky over a year once. He had visited Red Springs many times, before he had dared to court Alexander Maddox's daughter and been forbidden the place. His visits to the stable must have familiarized him. With the Gray Eagle, Ariel Strain bred there.

On the other hand, horses of the same combination were the pride of several other families living around Lexington. A racing line of high blood, Don Lorenzo said thoughtfully. See, this one has the pride, the appearance. You have raced him, senor, he asked Drew, with formal courtesy. Not on any real track, senor. During the war there were no races. He wasn't a cavalry mount. Don Cazar looked surprised. No, sir, too young for that. He was foaled on April 6th and 62. That's why they call him Shiloh. There was a moment of silence, broken by a hail from the door. You there, Rennie. Drew saw the involuntary spasm of Don Cazar's lips, the shadow of an expression which might mean, he anticipated, a distasteful scene to come.

But the quirk disappeared as he turned his face to the man in the blue uniform. Captain Bayliss, it was an acknowledgment rather than a greeting, delivered in a cool tone. "'I want to see you, Rennie.' The officer stamped forward a step or so to stand in the full light of the first lantern. He was of medium height, and his blue blouse had been cut by a good tailor, though now it was worn. He was a good-looking man, though jowly about the mouth, above which a closely cropped mustache bristled. His color was high under a pink skin, which in this hot country must burn painfully. And there was a permanent stamp of uncertain temper in the lines about his prominent eyes.

4 04 - Chapter 4 21:30

So, you see me, Bayliss? Don Cazar returned evenly. There's some trouble? Bartolome shifted from one foot to the other, his spurs ringing. Don Lorenzo's expression was one of withdrawal, but on the round countenance of the Mexican was open dislike. The sun-red skin flushed darker. All right, Rennie, the captain exploded. If you want it straight, that's the way you're going to get it. You've been hiring Rebs again. Once before, Drew had seen explosive anger curbed visibly by a man who knew the folly of losing control over his emotions. It had been on a hilltop back in Tennessee, with the storm clouds of January overhead. General Bedford Forrest, Watching men driven to the limit by necessity and his own orders, had looked just that way when he had rounded on Drew, bearing news of yet another breakthrough by the Federals.

Now it was this Anglo wearing Spanish dress and standing at a dim stable, reigning temper to meet the open hostility of the captain. Captain Bayliss. The words sounded as remote, as if the speaker bestrode some pique of the Chiricahuas. to address a pygmy in a canyon below. I know of no law which states that I may not employ whom I choose on my own land. If a man does his job and makes no trouble, his past does not matter. I'm as ready to fire a former Union soldier as I am a Confederate. I tell you again, I'm not going to have Rebs around here passing on information to Kitchell. And I say once again, Captain, That the men who ride for me do not, in addition, ride for Kitchell. See, Bartolome's face was as flushed as Bayliss is now.

We do not help those banditos. Do they not also raid us? Two weeks ago, Francisco Perez, his horse, comes in with blood on the saddle. We ride out and find him shot, dragged with a rope. That is not an Apache trick. That... but the work of Kitchell and his snakes. Peace, amigo. Dom Cazar's raised finger silenced his man. Bartolome is right, Baylis. Kitchell is beginning to nibble at the range. He has not many sources of supply left. Soon he will either have to cross the border to stay, or make some reckless raid, which will give us a chance at him. These damned Rebs around here will keep him going. You can't tell me they don't back him every chance they get, and I'm warnin' you, Rennie. If you hire any man you can't answer for, he's goin' to the stockade, and you'll hear about it from the army.

And you also listen, Captain. I will not be dictated to, and the army had best understand that. I do not want Kitchell in this country any more than you do. He has made a boast of being confederate, leading what he terms mounted irregulars, but to my knowledge He never held a commission from the South, and he is nothing but an outlaw, trading on the unsettled state of the territory. That is recognized by every decent man in Arizona. And that covers those he called rebels, as well as former Union men." Bayliss was silent for a long second, and then he jerked his hat farther down on his peeling forehead. "'You've had notice, Rennie. That's all I have to say.' I'm going to clear all the Rebs out of this section.

Then we will be able to get at Kitchell, and the army will settle him for good and all." Bayless. The captain had half turned, but Don Cazar's call halted him. Don't you try harassing any of my riders. They mind their business, and will not make any trouble as long as they are left in peace. If there are any problems in town, Don Lorenzo Sierra, here is the Alcady. And they must be referred to him. The captain favored Rennie with the last glare and was gone. Toby Kell spoke first. That one's chewing the bit and getting ready to hump under the saddle. This business of trying to run out the rebs, it'll cause smoking.

He has no right to give such an order, Don Cazar, was beginning when the alcalde interrupted. Compadre, For a man such as that, your talk of rights means nothing. He is eaten by the need to impress his will here, and that will bring trouble. I do not like what I have heard. No, I do not like it at all." You know what may be really eating at him this time, Hunt? Topham spoke from where he was leaning against the wall of Shadow's box stall. Johnny was throwing his weight around again last night. He had a set-to in the Jacks with a trooper. Unless the kid quits tryin' to fight the war over again every time he sees an army blouse, or until he stops pourin' whiskey down him every time he hits town, there may be shootin' trouble.

There's some equal hotheads in Bayliss's camp, and if Johnny goes up against one of them, a scuffle could become a battle. Yeah, and that warn't all Johnny was doin' last night. Kells shifted his tobacco cud from one cheek to the other. If in Kirby, Hadn't been the hand, Johnny would have skinned the triffin' kid with his quirt. Just cause he dropped his purse outside the Jack's, and the kid followed him to give it back. Johnny's meaner than a drunk injun these days. That's Bible swear truth, Rennie. "'To lose a war makes a man bitter,' Don Cazar said slowly. Johnny was far too young when he ran away to join Howard, and after that defeat at Glorietta—' The retreat to Texas was pure hell, with the fires roaring.

It seems to have done something to the boy inside. Johnny wasn't the only boy at Glorietta. From what I've heard, most of them weren't old enough to grow a good crop of whiskers. Toppin's voice had lost its detached note, and he sure wasn't the only Confederate to surrender. Hunt, he's got to learn that losing a war doesn't mean that a man has lost the rest of his life. But the way he's been acting these past months, Johnny might lose it. Bayliss's tongue is hanging out a yard or more, and he's panting so hard to get back at you. The captain has heady ambitions under his hat, maybe like setting up here as a tin-pot governor or something like. If he can discredit you, well, he probably thinks he's got a chance to rake in the full pot, and it's a big one.

Get Johnny back on the range, Hunt. Put him to work hard. Sweat that sour temper and whiskey out of him. He used to be a promising youngster. Now he's turning Bronco fast. All he seems to have learned in the war is how to use those guns of his to lord it over anyone he believes he can push around, and someday he'll try to push the wrong man. Don Cazar was staring ahead of him now at Drew and Shiloh, but Drew knew that Hunt was not seeing either man or horse, but a mental picture which was not too pleasing. He's just a boy. Rennie did not utter that as an excuse. Rather, he said it as if to reassure himself. Then his eyes really focused on Drew, and he changed the subject abruptly. Kirby, when the train comes in, we sometimes set up a race or two.

Any thought of trying your colt against some of the local champions? Oro, perhaps, Drew counter-questioned. Rennie laughed. Oh, so you been talkin, Fenner? The scout came away from where Tarr was still very audibly munching his treat. Didn't know as how the yonker had a running horse. Dongazar, he inspected Shiloh critically. But that dar sure looks like a lot of horse. Course, maybe he ain't used to runnin' out here, where the ground ain't made all nice and easy for his feet. But I don't know. I don't know at all. Anyway, he'll give Oro stiffer competition than he's had in the last two races. Unless that Lieutenant Spath up at the camp tries again with that long-legged black of his, Topham added.

What about it, Kirby? You willing to match Shiloh? He's green, but yes, I'll do it. Drew's motives were mixed. His pride in the cult had been pushing him toward such a trial. Ever since he had heard Fenner speak of Oro. In addition, as the owner of a noted horse, he would take a place in this community, establish his identity as Drew Kirby, and in some way he could not define, this put him, at least in his own mind, on equal footing with Don Cazar. But the next morning a few doubts troubled him as he tightened saddle cinches on the stallion. Shiloh's only races so far had been impromptu matches along the trail. Though the Colt had been consistently the victor, none of his rivals had been in his class.

And if Oro's speed was as striking as his coloring, the range stud would prove a formidable opponent. Walk him up and down here by the corral. The Kentuckian handed the reins to Callie. Got something I have to do. Drew went directly to the Four Jacks. This time the cantina was filled with a double row of thirsty, demanding attention at the bar. Potapham was seated at a table with Don Lorenzo and Zack Cahill of the stage line. The Kentuckian went over to them. "'You have come to back your horse, senor?' Don Lorenzo smiled up at Drew. There were piles of coins on the table, as Cahill... Listed bets for the men crowding round. Yes, sir. Drew spun down two double eagles. What are the odds? Start at six to one for Oro, Toppin told him.

Coasted down after a few of the boys had a look at Shiloh. Can give you four to one now. Anything else we can do for you? Drew dropped his voice. Do you have a safe here? Toppin's eyebrows climbed. Do you foresee a deposit or a withdrawal? Deposit. I want to ride light today. Then I'll admit possession of a safe such as it is. Don Lorenzo, por favor, will you act as banker? He beckoned, drew after him, into a small back room, which was in sharp contrast to the main part of the Four Jacks. On one wall was a fanned display of old daggers and swords, which dated a century or so back to the Spanish colonial days. A bookcase, crammed with tightly squeezed volumes, provided a resting place for pieces of native pottery bearing grotesque animal designs.

On the far wall were strips of brightly colored woven materials. Flanking a huge closed cupboard, a very old one, Drew thought. Its paneled front was carved with deeply incised patterns, centering about a shield bearing arms. Only the battered desk and attendant chair with a laced rawhide seat were of the frontier. Topham took a chain key from the pocket of his fancy vest, and went to fit it into a lock concealed in the carved foliage of the cupboard. The shield split down the middle, revealing shelves of metal boxes and packets of papers. Drew unfastened his money belt and handed it over. As he was tucking his shirt in, His belt once more. The gambler nodded at the cupboard. This is about as near a bank as we boast in Tubaca.

Cahill has a strongbox at the stage station, and Stein, some kind of lockup at his store. That's the total for the town. We haven't grown to the size for a real banking establishment. Hey, Reese. The old man about? Shannon was in the doorway. In the full light of day, he looked younger. Drew was puzzled. That strange animosity which had flashed between them last night, why had he felt it? There was nothing like that emotion now. But as Johnny Shannon's gaze flitted from Toppin to the Kentuckian, Drew was once more aware that, whatever he might outwardly seem, Johnny Shannon was no boy. Behind that disarmingly youthful facade was another person altogether. Kirby, ain't it? Shannon smiled. Understand I got out of line the other night, stepped on a lot of toes.

That gaze flickered for the nearest instant at the colts at the Kentuckians' belt. I sure had me a real snootful, and I guess I was just fighting the war all over again. No hard feelings?

That guileless confession was very convincing on the surface. How did you assess an emotion you did not understand yourself? Drew was teased by a fleeting memory of the past. Of a time when he had faced another pair of eyes such as those, surface eyes behind which you could see nothing. Then he became conscious that the pause was too lengthy, and he replied with a hurry he immediately regretted. No hard feelings. This time he was able to recognize the meaning of that quirk of Shannon's lips, but prudence controlled the small flare of temper he felt inside him. It did not really matter. Let Shannon think he was backing down. If the time ever came that they did have to have a showdown, Johnny Shannon might be the surprised one.

You're sure a trustin' fella. Shannon's fingers hooked on the front of the gun belt, riding low on the hip. Not asking for a receipt or nothin'. Topham laughed. We don't forget what is due a customer, Johnny. He went to the desk. Scribbled a line on a piece of paper, and held it out to Drew. This should meet all contingencies, such as some patron out there getting downright ornery and putting a couple of extra buttonholes in my vest by the six-gun slug method. Heard tell as how you're fixin' the racer plug against Oro, Kirby, Johnny drawed. Also how you laid down some good round boys to back his chance. I took me a piece of them easy pickin's. The sneer was plainer in his voice than it had been in his smile.

Drew's puzzlement grew. Why was Shanning leaning on him this way? Because he had stepped in to stop the querting of Teodoro? That was the only reason the Kentuckian could think of. That's a matter of opinion. Topham was studying them both with interest. I'd say Oro has some real competition at last. None of the Eclipse blood was ever backward on the track. You ridin' yourself? Shannon paid no attention to the gambler's comment. Drew nodded. He knows me, and I ride light. Sure, I suppose you do, now. Shannon's eyes flickered again. This time, to the lock cupboard. Heard tell, leastways, Callie's been spoutin' it around, that you was with General Forrest. Yes. "'You sure must have pulled out of that war better than the rest of us poor Rebs.

Got you a couple blooded horses and a good heavy money belt. A sight more luck than the rest of us had.' "'Don't include yourself in the empty-pocket brigade, Johnny,' Topham rapped out. "'I don't see you going without eating money, drinking money, either. More's a pity. And if you're really looking for Rennie now, you'll find him down at the course.' Shannon's smile was gone. He straightened away from the door frame, which had been supporting his shoulders. "'Thanks a lot, Rhys.' He left with the same abruptness as he had from the stable alley. "'So you're riding yourself.' Topham ignored the departure. "'Leon Rivas, Bartolome's son, will be up on Oro. He always rides for Rennie. He's younger than you, but I'd say—' The gambler studied Drew's lithe body critically.

"'You're about matched in weight. I'd shuck that gun-belt, though, and anything else you can. And good luck, Kirby. You'll need all of it you can muster.' An hour later, Drew followed Topham's advice, leaving gun-belt, carbine, and everything else he could unload in Callie's keeping before he swung up on Shiloh. The big colt was nervous, tending to dance sideways, tossing his head high. Drew concentrated on the business at hand, striving to forget the crowd opening up to let him through, shouting encouragement or disparagement. Ahead was the appointed track, a beaten stretch of earth, part of the old road leading to the mines. The Kentuckian talked to Shiloh as they went, keeping up a stream of words to firm the bond between horse and rider.

There was a knot of men. surrounding the golden horse, and as his rider mounted, Oro put on a good show, rearing to paw the air with his forefeet, as if he wished nothing better than to meet his gray rival in an impromptu boxing match. Then he nodded his head vigorously, acknowledging the shouts from his enthusiastic supporters. Beside that magnificent blaze of color, Shiloh was drab. A shadow! About to be put to flight by the sun.

They were to break at a starting shot. Head to the big tree, which made an excellent landmark in the flat valley, rounding its patch of shade, before returning to the starting point. Drew brought Shiloh, still prancing and playing with his bit, up beside Oro. The slim boy on the golden horse shot the Kentuckian, a shoulder-side look, and grinned. Raising his quirt in salute, and Drew nodded and smiled back. Some of the noise died, Don Lorenzo pointed a pistol skyward. Drew strove to make his body one with Shiloh's small, easy movements. The Big Grey knew very well what was in progress, was tensing now for a swift getaway leap, and he made it on the crack of the gun. But if Shiloh had easily outdistanced all opposition before...

On those improvised tracks, he was now meeting a far more equal race. The gray colt's stride was effortless. He was pounding out with power, more than Drew had ever known him to exert. Yet those golden legs matched his pace, reach for reach, hoofbeat for hoofbeat. "'Come on, boy,' Drew's urging was lost in the wild shouting of the spectators. Some who were mounted were trying to parallel the runners. But Shiloh responded to his rider's encouragement, even if he could not hear or understand. Drew would never use Quirt or Spur on the stud. What Shiloh had to give must come willingly, and because he delighted in the giving. They swept in and around the shade of the tree, made the ark to return. The golden head, with its tossing crown of black forelock, it was slipping back.

Oro. Was no longer nose to nose with Shiloh. Rather now, nose to neck. Drew could hear Riva's voice encouraging, pleading. A mass of men, mounted and on foot, funneled the runners down to where the line of rope lay straight to mark the finish. Ora was creeping up once more, inch by hard one inch. Drew's head went up. His throat was rasped raw by the yell. which had taken desperately gray-coated troopers down hedge-bordered roads in Kentucky and steep ravines in Tennessee, sending them, if need be, straight into the mouth of Yankee field guns. And the yell brought Shiloh home, only a nose ahead of his rival, as if he had been spurred by the now outlawed war-cry. Then Drew found his hands full, trying to pull up the colt and persuade him That the race was indeed over.

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Fener, a wide grin, splitting his beard, bellowed. "'That sure was a race. Need any help, son?' Drew shook his head, wanting to bring Shiloh under full control at a rate which would quiet the colt, Before they headed back to the Führer about the finish line. And only now did he have time to relish his own excited pride and pleasure. Since he had first seen Shiloh on that scouting trip back to Kentucky in 64, he had known he must some day own the great colt. He had lain out in the bush for a long time that morning to watch the head groom of Red Springs put the horse through his paces in the training paddock. And watching jealously, Druid realized that Shiloh was one of those mounts that a man discovers only once in his lifetime, though he may breed and love their kind all his years.

Druid had been content with Shiloh as a mount and a companion, but now he was sure that the colt was more, so much more. This Gray was going to be one of the great ones, a racer and a sire. To leave his mark in horse history and stamp his own quality on foals throughout the miles and years in this southwestern land. Drew licked the grit of dust from his lips, filled his lungs with a deep breath, as Shiloh turned under rain pressure. It was a long time before the Kentuckian was able to separate Shiloh from his ring of new admirers and bring him back to the stable. Drew refused several offers for the colt, some of them so fantastic he could only believe Their makers, sun-touched, were completely carried away by the excitement of the race.

But when he found Don Cazar waiting for him at Kells, he guessed that this was serious. "'You do not wish to sell him, I suppose,' Huntranie smiled at Drew's prompt shake of head. "'No, that would be too much to hope for. You are not a fool. But I have something else to suggest. Reese Topham tells me you are looking for work, preferably with horses.' "'Well, I have a contract to gentle some remounts for the Army, and I needed some experienced men to help break them.' Drew could not understand the sudden pinch of—could it be alarm? Here it was, a chance to work on the range, to know Hunt Rennie, and learn whether Don Cazar was to remain a legend or become a father. But now he was not sure. "'I'm not a breaker, sir.

I've gentled, yes, but Eastern style.' Breaking horses can be brutal, though we don't ride with red spurs on the range. Suppose we try some of the eastern methods and see how they work on our wild ones. Do you think you can do it? A man can't tell what he can do until he tries, Drew still hedged. There was a trace of frown now between Rennie's brows. You told Topham you wanted work. His tone implied that he found Drew's present hesitancy odd. And from Don Cazar's point of view, it was. Tubaca was still in a slump. The rest of the valley held about as many jobs for a man as Drew had fingers on one hand. The range was a big holding, and a ride there meant security and an established position in the community.

Also, perhaps, it was not an offer lightly made to an unknown newcomer. "'I can't promise you Bluegrass Training, sir.' That has to begin with a fold. He hoped Rennie would credit his wavering to a modest appraisal of his own qualifications. Bluegrass training? As his father repeated the expression, Drew realized the slip of tongue he had made, and if he took the job, there might be other slips, perhaps far more serious ones. But to refuse, after Toppin had spoken for him, he was caught in a pinch With cause for suspicion closing in on either side. I was in Kentucky for about a year after the war. I went to stay with a friend. But you are from Texas. Was Rene watching him too intently? No, he must ride a tide of rain on his imagination.

There was no reason in the wide world why Don Cazar should expect him to be anyone except Drew Kirby. Yes, sir. Didn't have anything to go back to there. Thought I'd drive for a new start out here. There was the story of several thousand veterans. Rennie should have heard it a good many times already. Well, come and try some bluegrass training on our colts, and should you let this stud of yours run with a picked monata of mayors, I could promise good fees. Suppose I said yes if the fees were some of the foals of my own choosing, sir? Drew asked. Rennie ran a finger across the brand, which scarred Gray's hide. Spur R. That's a new one to me. My own. Heard tell as how there's a custom of the country that a slick like this old can be branded and claimed by anyone bringing him in.

I wasn't going to lose him. That way, should he do any strain, accidental or intentional. Don Cazar laughed. That's using your head, Kirby. All right. It's a deal, as far as I'm concerned. You draw a wrangler's pay and take stud fees and foals. Say one in three you're choosing. Register that brand of yours with Don Lorenzo to be on the safe side. Then you're welcome to run, Smur R, with a double R on the range. He held out his hand, and Drew grasped it for a quick shake to seal their agreement. He was committed now to the range. and to a small partnership with its master. But he still wondered if he had made the right choice. Two days later, he dropped bed-rolling saddlebags on the spare bunk at one end of the long adobe-walled room, and studied his surroundings with deep curiosity.

It was a fort, all right. This whole stronghold of Rennie's. Not just a bunkhouse, which formed part of a side wall, bunkhouse, feed store, and storage room. Blacksmith shop, cook house, stables, main house, the quarters for married men and their families, all arranged to enclose a patio into which choice stock could be herded at the time of an attack, with a curbed well in the center. The roofs of all the buildings were flat, with loophole parapets to be manned at need. A sentry post on the main house was occupied twenty-four hours a day. By relays of Pimas. A loaded rifle leaned at every window opening, ready to be fired through loopholes in the wooden war shutters. The walls were twenty-five inches thick, and mounted on the roof of the stable, facing the hills from which Apache attacks usually came, was a small brass cannon.

Don Cazar's legacy from troops marching away in 61. What he saw of the resources of this private fort? Let Drew to accept the other stories he had heard of the Rage, like the one that Don Cazar's men practiced, firing blindfolded at noise targets, to be prepared for night raids. The place was self-contained and almost self-supporting. With stores of food, good water, its own forge and leather shops, its own craftsmen and experts, no wonder the Apaches had given up trying to break this Anglo outpost. and Rennie had accomplished what others found impossible. He had held his land secure against the worst and most unbeatable enemy this country had nourished. There were other ranged forts, smaller but as stoutly and ingeniously designed, each built beside a water source on Rennie's land.

Defense points for Don Cazar's riders, their garrisons rotated at monthly intervals. And Drew had to thank that system for having taken Johnny Shannon away from the stronghold before the Kentuckian arrived. Rennie's foster son was now writing inspection between one waterhole fortification and another, but Drew was uncertain just how he would rub along with Shannon in the future. Senor Kirby, Don Cazar, he would speak with you in the Casa Grande. Leon Rivas called through one of the patio-side windows. Coming, Drew left the huddle of his possessions on the bunk. The Casa Grande of the stronghold was a high-ceilinged, five-room building about sixty feet long, the kitchen making a right angle to the other rooms and joining the smokehouse to form another part of wall for the patio.

Mesquite logs as uned, and only partially smoothed, were placed over the doorways, and the plank doors themselves were slung on hand-wrought iron hinges or on leather straps from oak turning posts. Drew knocked on the age-darkened surface of the big door. "'Kirby, come in.' Here, in contrast to the brilliant sunlight of the patio, was a dusky coolness. There were no glass panes in the windows. Manta, the unbleached muslin, Which served to cover such openings in the frontier ranches, was tact-tent, allowing in air, but only subdued light. The walls had been smoothly plastered, and as in Toppen's office, lengths of colorful woven materials and a couple of Navajo blankets served as hangings. Rugs of cougar and wolf skin were scattered on the beaten earth of the floor.

There was a tall carved cupboard. With a grilled door, a bookcase, and two massive chests shoved back against the walls. And over the stone mantle of the fireplace hung a picture of a morose-looking bearded man wearing a steel breastplate, the canvas dim and dark with age and smoke. Don Cazar was seated at a table as massive as the chests, a pile of papers before him, flanked by two four-branched candelabra. of native silver. Bartolome riva's more substantial bulk weighed down the rawhide seat of another chair more to one side. Sit down. Rennie nodded to the seat in front of the table. Smoke? He pushed forward a silver box, holding the long cigarillos of the border country. Drew shook his head.

Whiskey wine? He gestured to a tray with waiting glasses. Sherry? Drew automatically answered without thought. What do you think of the stock you saw down in the corral? Don Cazar poured a honey-colored liquid from the decanter into a small glass. As a Kentuckian raised it to sip, the scent of the wine quirked time for him, making this for a fleeting moment, the dining room at Red Springs, during a customary after-dinner gathering of the men of the household. The talk there, too, had been of horses, always horses. Then Drew came back in a twitch of eyelid to the here and now, to hunt Rennie watching him with a measure he did not relish, to Bartolome's round face with its close to hostile expression.

Deliberately, Drew sipped again before answering the question. "'I'd say, sir, if they're but a sample of rain-stock, the breed is excellent. However,' However, what, senor? Bartolome's eyes challenged Drew. In this territory, even in Sonora, there are none to compare with the horses of this hacienda. That is not what I was about to say, senor Rivas. But if Don Cazar wishes to try the eastern methods of training, these horses are too old. You begin with a yearling colt, not three-year-olds. To break a foal? What madness! Now Bartolome's face expressed shock. Not breaking, Drew corrected. Training. It is another method altogether. One puts a weanling on a rope halter, accustoms him to the feel of the hackabor, of being with men.

Then he grows older, knowing no fear or strangeness. The Mexican looked from Drew to Don Cazar, his shock fading to puzzlement. Rennie nodded. See, amigo? So it is done, in Kentucky and Virginia. But this time we must deal with the older ones. Can you modify those methods, gentle, without breaking? A colt with a fire still in him, but saddle-broke, is worth much more. I can try. But as you have already said, sir, that you don't allow rough breaking here. Drew's half-suspicion crystallized into belief. Don Cazar. had not really wanted another wrangler at all. He had wanted Shiloh and his foals. Well, perhaps he would find that he did have a wrangler who could deliver the goods into the bargain.

No, but it is always well to learn new ways. I have been in Kentucky, Kirby. Perhaps some of their methods would not work on the range. On the other hand, others might. As you have said, we can but try. He picked up the top sheet of paper and began to read. Bios Blancos, Light Duns, Two. Bios Azafrandos, Saffron's, One. Bios Naharados, Orange Duns, None. There was one, Valtamoli interrupted. The mayor. She was lost at Canyon Del Palomas. Rennie frowned. See, the mayor. Bios Tigris, Striped Ones, Three. Bayos, Sembrunos, Smoke Duns, Two, Gorillas, Blues, Four, Rones, Six, Blacks, Three, Bays, Four. Twenty-five three-year-olds. You won't be expected to take on the old remute, a curvy. Select any six of your own choosing, and use your methods of gently nodding them.

We'll make a test this way." Bartolome uttered a sound closer to a snort than anything else. and Drew guessed how he stood with the Mexican foreman. Rennie might have faith, or pretend to have faith, in some new method of training, but Rivas was a conservative who preferred the try and true, and undoubtedly considered the Kentuckian an interloper. Now the matter of Shiloh. Drew finished the sherry with appreciation. He was beginning to see the amusing side of this conference. Drew's work on the range settled, Rennie was about to get to what he really wanted, but Don Cazar's first words were a little startling. "'We'll keep him close in the water corral. To turn a stud of Eastern Breeding loose is too dangerous.' "'He might be stolen, huh?' Droop clicked his empty glass down on the table.

"'No, he might be killed,' and Rennie's tone indicated he meant just that. "'How? Why?' "'There are wild horse bands out there.' Though we're trying to capture or run them off the range, and a wild stud will always try to add mares to his band. Because he has fought many times to keep or take mares, he is a formidable and vicious opponent, one that an imported, tame stud can rarely best. Right now, coming into Big Rock Well for Water is a pinto that has killed three other stallions, including a black-eye imported in Sixty. And two of them were larger, heavier animals than he. The Triffins are moving down into that section this week. I hope they can break up that band, run down the stud anyway.

He has courage and cunning, but his blood is not a line we want for foals on this range. So Shiloh stays here at the stronghold. Don't risk him loose. Yes, sir. What about these wild ones? They worth huntin'? They're mixed. Some are scrubs, inbred poor stuff. But a few fine ones turn up mostly when they do. Their strays are bred from strays, escaped from horse thieves or Indians. If the Mustangers here pick up any branded ones, they're returned to their owners, if possible, or sold at a yearly auction. By the old Mexican law, the hunting season for horses runs from October to March. Foles are old enough, then, to be branded. Speaking of foals, you left your mayor and the filly in town. Kells'll give them stable room to next month.

I can bring them out then. We have a delivery of remounts to make to the camp about then. You can help haze those in and pick up your own stock on return. Leon appeared in the doorway. Don Cazar. The Messinaos. They arrive. Good. These people are the real wild-horse experts, Kirby. Not much the Triffins don't know about horses. Don Cazar was already on his way to the door, and Drew fell in behind Bartolome. The Triffin outfit was small, considering the job they intended, Drew thought. A cart pulled by two mules, lightly made and packed high, was the nucleus of their small caravan. Burroughs, two of them. were roped behind, and to Drew's surprise, a cow bawling fretfully and intended, he later learned, to play foster mother to any unweened foals which might be picked up.

The cart was driven by a Mexican in leather breeches and a jacket over a red shirt. Behind him rode the boy and girl Drew had seen in the Tabaka alley, mounted on rangy, nervous horses that had speed in every line. of their under-fleshed bodies. Each rider trailed four spare mounts roped nose to tail. Buenos dias, Don Cazar. For so small a man, the Mexican on the cart-seat produced a trumpet-sized voice. He touched the rolled-edged brim of his sombrero, and Drew noted that his arm was crooked, as if in the past it had been broken and poorly set. Buenos dias, Senor Trefan. This house is yours. Rennie went to the side of the cart. The West Corral is ready for your use, as always. Draw on the stores for any need you may have.

Gracias, Don Cazar. It was the thanks of equal to equal. You have some late news of the Wild Ones? Only that the Pinto still runs near the well. The Spotted One, see. He is an Apache for cunning, for deviltry of spirit. It may be that this time he will not be the lucky one. There is in him a demon. Did I not see him with my own eyes kill a foal, tear flesh from the flanks of its dam, when she tried to drop out of the run? See, a real Diablo, that one. Get rid of him one way or another, Triffin. He is a danger to the range. He killed another stud this season. I am sure of that, as if I had seen him in action. And the blue one you thought might be a runner to match Oro? See? That was a great pity, Don Cazar.

Well, we shall try, we shall try this time, to put that Diablo under. An hour later, Drew was facing a Diablo of his own, with far less confidence than Hilario Tiffin had voiced. Just how stupid could one be? Around him now were men trained from early childhood to this life, and he could show no skill at their employment. All the way out from Texas, he had practiced doggedly with the lariat, and his best fell far short of what a range-bred child could do. Yet he had an audience waiting down at the corral. Drew's mouth was a straight line. He would soon confirm their belief that Don Cazar had in truth hired Shiloh instead of his owner. But there was no use trying to duck the ordeal, and the Kentuckian had never been one to put off the inevitable with a pallid hope that something would turn up to save him.

Only this time, apparently, Fortune was going to favor him. Which one you wish, senor? Teodoro Triffin, rope in hand, stood there, ready to cast for one of the million colts. Why the boy was making that offer of assistance, Drew had no inkling. But to accept would give him a slight chance to prove he could do part of the work. He had already made his selection in the corral, though he had despaired of ever getting that animal at rope's end. The Black.

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He worked in the dust of the smaller corral, with Croker's help, adapting his knowledge of Eastern gentling the way he had mentally planned it during the days since he had accepted the job. With the excited and frightened Colt roped to the steady mule, Drew tried to think horse, feel horse, even be horse. Shutting out all the rest of the world, just as he had had on the day of the race. He must sense the colt's terror of the rope, his horror of the strange human smell, the man odor which was so frightening that a blanket hung up at a water hole could keep wild horses away from the liquid they craved. Drew talked as he had the Shiloh, as if this black could understand every word. He twitched the lead rope.

And Croker paced sedately about in a wide circle, dragging the colt with him. Drew then reached across the bony back of the mule, pressed his hand up and down the sweaty, shivering hide of the black. No hurry. Must not rush the steady, mild gesture to the horse that here was a friend. The Kentuckian had no idea of the passing of time. It was all part of the knowledge That slow movements, not swift ones, would prevent new panic. The blanket was shown, allowing the black to sniff down its surface before it was flapped back and forth across the colt's back and finally left there. Now the saddle, and with that cinched into place, the black stood quietly beside Croker. Drew mounted the mule and rode.

The saddled black, loosened from the twin tie, Followed the mule twice around the corral. The rider dismounted from Croker, was up on the black. For perilous seconds he felt flesh and muscle tense under his weight. Then the body relaxed. His hand went up. Open the gate, he called softly. Seeming to realize he was free of the pole walls, the black exploded in a burst of speed, which was close to Shiloh's racing spurt. Drew let him go. Three-quarters of an hour later he rode back, the black, blowing foam, but answering the rain. He found Don Cazar, Bartolome, and Hilario Triffin waiting for him by the corral. The mustanger walked forward with a lurch, his head thrown far back so he could look up at Drew from under the wide brim of his sombrero.

This you could not do with a true wild one, he commented. "'I know that, senor. This colt was not an enemy, one who has already been hunted by man. He was only afraid.' "'But you have a gift. It is born in one, the gift. A man has it, and the horse always knows, answers to it. Ride with me, senor, and try that gift on the wild ones.' "'Some day,' that was true, some day, Drew did want to ride after the wild ones.' Antz's stories of horse-hunting on the Texas plain had first stirred that desire. Now it was fully awake in him. Don Cazar inspected the black closely. Well, Bartolome, what have you to say now? Senor Kirby knows his business, the Mexican admitted, though I think also that this was no true wild one.

He will make a good remount, but he is no fighter. Such as others I have seen here. Drew unsaddled and left the black in with Croker. He fed both animals a bait of oats. In the morning he would be at this again, and he had still not solved the problem of roping. He could not expect Teodoro to come to his aid a second time. He started slowly back to the bunkhouse. Senor? Drew raised his wet head from the bunkhouse basin. And reached out for a sacking towel. Yes? Leon sat on a nearby bunk. I have thought of something. Sounds as if it might be important, Drew commented. Don Cazar, he has offered money, a hundred dollars in gold, to have off the range that killer Pinto stud. But that one, he is like the Apache.

He is not to be caught. Can't someone pick him off with a rifle? Perhaps. Only that has been tried several times, senor. My father, he thought he had killed him only two months ago. But the very next week, did not the pinto come to steal mares from the Bay Minata? It must have been that he was only creased. No, he is a Diablo, and he hides in the rocks where he cannot easily be seen. But there is a plan I have thought of." Leon hesitated, and Drew guessed he was about to make a suggestion which he believed. Might meet with disapproval. And this plan of yours? Why had Leon come to him with it? Surely young Rivas had better and closer friends at the stronghold. Why approach a newcomer? The pinto, he is a fighter.

He likes to fight. He will not allow another stud on the ground he claims. Drew was beginning to understand. Wild ones were sometimes trapped by a belled mare. Staked out to draw them in. But a stud to catch a fighting stud was another plan altogether. You would offer him a fight? See, but not a real fight. Just allow him to believe that there would be one. Pull him so out of hiding in the rocks. Using what stud for bait? Senor Juanito, he said a stud that would fight too, like Shiloh. Shiloh drew Watt at the towel in his fist. and pitched it across the room. Shiloh? Leon must have read something of Drew's blazing anger in his face, for the Mexican's mouth went a little slack, and his hand came up in an involuntary gesture as if to ward off a blow.

It is a good plan. His boy's voice was thin in protest against Drew's expression. It is a harebrained, dangerous scheme, began Drew. Then he switched to a question. Did Johnny Shannon suggest using Shiloh for bait, or was that your idea? Senor Juanito, he said one must have a good horse, a fighter. But such a horse would not be hurt. We would wait with rifles and shoot the Pinto quickly before he attacked. There would be no harm to Shiloh, none at all. Senor Juanito said that. Only a trick to get the Diablo, where we could shoot. Maybe. Leon's eyes dropped, a flush rose slowly on his brown cheeks. Maybe it was very foolish, but when Senor Juanito told it, it sounded well. "'Did he tell you to ask me about it?' The flush darkened.

"'He did not say so, Senor, but one would not do such a thing without permission. Also, you should be one of the hunters, no? How else could we go?' Well, there won't be any hunting of that kind, Leon. Triffin knows what he's doing, and I don't think the pinto is going to be running loose or alive much longer. Drew pulled a clean shirt over his head. What kind of game was Johnny Shannon trying to play? Apparently he had almost talked Leon into using Shiloh as bait in this fool's stunt. Had he expected the kid to take the horse without Drew's knowledge, or for some reason Had he wanted Leon to spill this? A trick to get Shiloh out of the stronghold. But why? He buckled on his gun belt, settled the twin holsters comfortably.

Shannon. What and why? he repeated silently. Nothing sorted out in his mind. Drew only felt a prickle of uneasiness which began between his shoulder blades and ran a chill down his spine. As if rifle sights were on him. But Shannon did not return to the stronghold, and Drew was kept busy at the corrals from dawn to dusk. In a month of hard work, it was easy to forget what might only be fancies. There was an invigorating crispness in the air, and the dungelding the Kentuckian road savored the breeze as a desert dweller savors water. Drew was indulgent with his mount's skittishness as they pounded along at the tail of the horse herd bound for Tuwbacca. From a rocky point well before them there was a flash of light.

Jared and I, on Drew's left, took off his hat and waved the wide-arm signal to answer Grayfeather's mirror. Two of the Pimas were scouting ahead on this two-day drive, and the Anglo riders We're keeping the herd to a trot. Apaches, Kitchell, even Bandidos from over the border could be sniffing about the rage, eyeing its riches, ready to pick up anything left unprotected. The men rode with their rifles free of the boot, fastened by a loop of rawhide to the saddle horn, the old Texas precaution which allowed for instant action, and at each halt the six-shooter Colt's loading was checked. Nye swerved, sending a lagger on with a sharp crack of a quirt in the air. He pulled up the match-drew, sobered trot.

That was the last bad stretch. Now it'll be downhill in green fields all the way. Nye nodded at the narrow opening between two hills lying ahead, glad to get this band in on all four legs and running easy. You expected trouble? Kid in this here country, you don't expect nothing else, but... Last time we brought horses up the trail, they jumped us four or five miles back, right close to where we saw that pile of bones this morning. Before he knew what hit us, Jim Barry was face down and never got up again, and the old man took him a crease across the ribs that made him bleed like a stuck pig, got him patched up and into town. Then he keeled over when he tried to get down off his horse and was in bed a week.

Apaches? No, we figured it was Kitchell. Couldn't prove it, though. And after that, the old man made a rule. We take Pimas every drive. Ain't nothin' able to surprise them. I never had no use for Injins. But these here are peaceful cusses, if'n they don't smell an Apache. With them riding point, We're sure sliding the groove. Me? I'll be glad to hit town. I sure like to keep the barkeep busier than a beaver building himself a new dam. Though with the old man off, repping for the law, down along the border and needing hands back on the range, we swallows down the dust nice and easy and takes it slow. Anyway, this far from payday, I can count up most of my roll. Without taking it out of my pocket.

Does Kitchell think it's true that some of the ranchers are really helping him? Don't know. Might be he's trying to play the deuce against the whole deck. Less than he lives on the kind of whiskey, as would make a rabbit up and spit in a grizzly's eye hole, he's got something or someone to back him. Me, or the old man pounding the hills, flat looking for me, I'd crawl the nearest bronc. And make myself as scarce as a snake's two ears. And I shrugged. Kitchell's got some powerful reason for squatting out in the brush, playing cat-eyed with most of the territory. Maybe so, there's some as will sit in on his side. But they've sure got their jaws in a sling, and ain't bawling about it none. Course, lots of people were red-hot revs back in 61.

And they saw as how the white man fighting each other just naturally gave the Apaches and some of the border riffraff ideas about taking over. Most of us now ain't waving no flag. If'n Kitchell has got him some die-hards backing him. Nye shrugged again. Get along there, you knock-kneed, goat-headed, wagon-loafer. He pushed on to haze another slacker. They were dusty and dry when they dropped the corral gate. In place, and watched the horses mill around. Drew headed for Kel's stable, shadow-nickered a greeting, and turned around as if to purposely edge her daughter forward for his inspection. Pretty ma'am, he told her. Very pretty. She's going to be as fine a lady as her ma. I'm willing to swear to that.

The filly lipped Drew's fingers experimentally, and then snorted. And did a frisky little dance with her tiny hoofs rustling in the straw. Kells had been as good as his promise, Drew noted. Mother and child had had expert attention, and Shadow's coat had been groomed to a glossy silk. Her black mane and tail were rippling satin ribbons. "'Gonna take him back to the range with you, Mr. Kirby?' Callie came down from the loft. "'Yes. I'll need a cart and drive her, though.' We'll have to give the foal a lift. Know anyone for hire, Callie?" I'll ask around. Have any trouble coming up? No. Grayfeather and Running Fox were scouting for us. Stage was jumped yesterday on the Sonora Road, Callie volunteered.

One man got him a bullet in the shoulder, but they got away clean. It was Kitchell, the driver thought. Captain Bayless took out a patrol right away. "'You planning on going back with Kitchell out?' "'Don't know,' Drew replied absently. "'Better leave that decision to Nye. He knew the country and the situation. "'You ask about the cart, Callie. "'But don't make it definite. "'Have to see how things turn out.' Drew started for the Four Jacks to meet Nye, but here in Tabaka he was conscious now how much he had allowed his personal affairs to drift from day to day. Of course he had seen very little of Hunt Rennie at the stronghold. His father had ridden south on patrol, with his own private posse shortly after his own arrival there.

But whenever Drew had thought seriously of the future, he had that odd sense of dislocation and loss which he had first known on the night he had seen Don Cazar arrive at the cantina. Don Cazar. Hunt Rennie. Drew Kirby. Drew Rennie. A seesaw. To make a man dizzy, or maybe the vertigo, he felt, was the product of too much sun, dust, and writing. There was someone at the far table in the cantina, but otherwise the dusky room was empty. Drew went directly to the bar. Got any coffee, Fowler? Sure thing. Nye was in here about five minutes ago. Said for you to wait here for him. Hear about Kitchell holding up the stage? Callie told me. Said the Army Patrol went out after him. Yeah, don't mean they'll nail him, though.

He's as good as an Apache, about keeping undercover. Here's your coffee. Want some grub, too?" The smell of coffee revived Drew's hunger. Sure could use some. Haven't eaten since we broke camp at Sunup. Sings in the kitchen. I'll give him the sign to rattle the pans. Say, been racing that Shiloh of yours lately? Sure am glad I played a hunch and backed him against Oro. Fowler's red forelock bobbed over his high forehead as he nodded vigorously. No racing on the range. Hope you're keeping him closer. That border crew sure'd like to get a rope on him. Down Sonora Way, one of them X's would dig right down to the bottom of his money chest to buy a horse like that. I'll go tell Sing. Drew, coffee mug in hand, sat down at a table where some of the breeze beat in the door now and then.

Lord, he was really tired. He stretched out his legs, and the sun made twinkly points of light on the rowels of the Mexican Spurs. Sipping the coffee, he allowed himself the luxury of not doing any thinking at all. Fowler brought a heaping plate, and Drew began to eat. Oh, there you are. Knives slammed in, swung one of the chairs about, and sat on it back to front, his arms folded across the back. You ridin' out to tell the Army we're here with the horses, Drew asked. Nope. Caught sight of them ridin' in. Looks like Sergeant Muller was in command. He'll come in here. Hey, Fowler, how's about another plate of fodder? Steady on, fella. Make it straight ahead, now. Both of them looked up. A burly man, wearing sergeant stripes, steered a slighter figure before him through the open door.

Johnny Shannon, a bandage about his uncovered head, lurched as if trying to free himself from the other's grip, and caught at a chair back. Nye and Drew jumped up to ease him into a seat. What began Nye? Mueller interrupted, found him crawling along. Right near town. Says as how he was took by Kitchell and got away, but he ain't too clear about what happened or where. We're in a crease alongside his skull. Maybe that scrambled up his thinking some. Better get Doc Matthews. I think he's in town. Fowler came from the bar, a glass in hand. Right, I'll go. Nye started out. Johnny had slumped forward, his head on the table. Encircled by his limp arms. Drew was puzzled. Shannon was supposed to have ridden south on the range, not north.

What was he doing this far from the waterhole route? Had he found a trail which led him in this direction? Or had he been jumped somewhere by Kitchell's pack of wolves and forced along for some purpose of their own? Was he ridin', Sergeant? Drew asked, hardly knowing why. No footin' it. Said something about Long Canyon, after we gave him a pull at a canteen. Sure came a long way, if that's where he started. I'll get Hamlikar. He knows something about doctoring. Fowler cut in. Maybe Doc Matthews ain't here after all. Hey, Sarge, can I see you a minute? Came a hail from without. You manage. Mueller made more an order than a request as he left. Drew sat along with Shannon, one hand on the boy's shoulder, to steady him.

He was aware of movement behind him. If the fellow at the back table had been dozing earlier, he was roused now. Where'd you get them spurs? Drew turned. His lips shaped the name, tried again, and got it out as a hoarse whisper. Ants? Don't you know me, Ants? He saw eyes lift from the floor level. The scarred cheek under a ragged fringe of beard, and then astonishment in the other's expression became a flashing grin. "'Drew! Drew Rennie! Lordy! It's sure enough Drew Rennie!' Drew was on his feet, his hands on the other's shoulders, pulled him forward in a rough half-embrace. "'Aunts!' He swayed to the joyous pounding of a fist between his shoulder blades. "'I thought you were dead.' He somehow gasped.

"'And I seen you go down. The slug got you plumb center,' the Texan sputtered. "'Rolled round a bush and saw you get it. But for a ghost, you're sure lively.' Caught me in the belt buckle. Jew recounted that miracle of the war. Knocked me out, but didn't really touch the matter, though." Anse pushed away a little, still holding Drew tightly by the upper arms. Anybody told me I'd see Drew Rennie live and kicking. I'd have said straight to his face he was a fork-tongued liar. Drew came partly to his senses, and the present, foul or nigh, either one of them, could come back on this reunion. Ants, listen. This is important. I ain't Drew Rennie, not here, not now. I'd draw a new name out of the deck.

Ants's grin faded. His eyes narrowed. All right. What's the go and handle? Kirby drew Kirby. I'll explain later. He had given the warning only just in time. Fowler and Hamlikar were coming from the back room of the cantina, and there was a stir at the table. Johnny was sitting up, his head swaying from side to side, his eyes on Drew and Ants. But the stare was unfocused. He must still be only half-conscious. Drew had a fleeting prick of worry. Had Shannon heard anything he would remember? There was nothing to be done about that now.

7 07 - Chapter 7 23:12

And that's the way it is, Drew sat on the stool, which was the only other furnishing in the bath cubicle, while Ant splashed and wallowed in the slab tub. The Texan swiped soap from his cheek. Ain't you gonna tell? I don't know, would you? Go with my hat in hand and say, "'Well, Pa, here's your wondering boy.' No, I don't know how's I be making that kind of play neither. Never was one to unspool the bedroll till I was sure of the brand I was writing for, and you and me's kind of hide-match there. Glad you wised me up in time." Maybe I didn't, Drew admitted. You mean that Shannon? I know you think he's filing his teeth for you. But I'd say he was too busy counting stars from that Skull Belton to make sense out of our hurrah.

I'll give him the eye, though. Listen now. You're Kirby. So am I called for rebranding, too. Seems like two Kirbys turning up in a town this size is going to make a few people ask some questions. You're my cousin, Anson Kirby. Drew had already thought that out. Now you've some tall talkin' to do your own self. I saw you roll out of your saddle back in Tennessee. How come you turn up here and now? Anse sluiced water over his head and shoulders with cupped hands. Do I tell it just like it happened? You'll think I'm just callin' up mountains out of prairie-dog hills. It's that crazy. But it's range truth, yeah. I landed out of that saddle on some mighty hard ground, if you'll remember. I had me a hold in the shoulder big enough to let the wind whistle through.

I rolled between the bushes just in time to see you get it. Plum center and final, so I thought. Then, while I don't remember too good for a while, next time I was able to take a real interest, I was lying on a bed with about a mountain of quilts on top of me, weaker'n a yearlin', what's just been dragged out of a bog hole. Seems like them Yankees gathered me up. With the rest of them bushwhackers, scrubs. But when they got me a mile or so down the road, they decided as how I'd had it good, and there was no use wasting wagon room on me. So they let me lie. Only the Texan paused, and then continued more soberly. Drew sometimes, sometimes it seems, like an hombre can have a mite more of his share of luck, or else he's got him someone.

As is line-writing for him. We had his friends in Tennessee, and it just happened as how I was dropped where one of them families found me. They were sure good folks, patched me up, and saw me through like I was their close kin. Hid me out by saying as how I had the cholera. And most of the time, I don't know a rope from a saddle, out of my head complete. First, there was that shoulder hole. Then I got me a good case of lung fever. It was two months before I could crawl round better than a sick calf. What's lost its ma too early? Then, just as I got so, I could stamp my boots on the ground, and expect to stand straight up in them. This here Yankee patrol come long, and dogged me into a bunch of our boys.

They had rounded up. I had me some weeks in a prison stockade, which ain't, I'm telling you. No way for to spend any living time. Then this here war was over, and I was loose. No horse, no nothing. Some of the boys got to talking about trailing back to Texas, trying out some ranching in the bush country. A lot of wild stuff down there. Nobody's been running brands on anything much since 61. We planned to get a herd of mavericks, drive up into Kansas or Missouri, and sell. A couple of the boys... Had run stuff in that way for the Army, even swum him across the Mississippi. It would maybe give us a start, and, well, there weren't nothing else to do, so we tried it. Ant sat staring down at the water lapping at his lean middle.

His was a very thin body, the ribs standing out beneath the skin almost as harshly as did the wheel of the scar on his shoulder. And it didn't work? Well, it might have. I ain't sayin' it won't for some hombres. Only we'd run into trouble. Texas ain't Texas no more. It's the Fifth Military District. Any man what fought for the Confederacy ain't got any rights. It's worse than an Indian War. We got us our herd, leastwise the beginning of one. And that was back-breaking work. We was feeling as beat as when we were run out of Tennessee after Franklin. Only we kept to it. "'Cause it would give us a stake. So we started driving north, and they jumped us. Who? Yankees. The brand would probably set at home, and let others do the real fightin', ready to come in and take over once the shootin' was done with.

They grabbed the herd, shot Will Bacchus when he stood up to him, and made it all legal, cause they had a tin-horned deputy riding with them. Well, we got him anyway, and two or three of the others... But then they called in the Army, and we had the ride for it. Scattered so, they had more than one trail to follow. But they posted us as wanted back there. So I come whipping a mighty tired horse out of Texas, and I ain't planning on going back to any fifth military district. Any chance to push a star after you here? No, I'm just small stuff, not worth bothering about by their reckoning. Now I ain't got anything. Left them buzzards can pick off my bones. They sittin' tight and gettin' fat right there.

Then it's all set. Drew tossed Anza a towel, climb out, and we'll get started. Doin' what? You've worked horses, and they can use another wrangler on the range. Right now, they've got a lot to be topped. Want to gentle them some, and trade them south into Mexico. If you ride for Don Cazar... Nobody's gonna ask too many questions. How do you know he'll sign me on? And studied his own unkept, if now clean reflection in the shaving mirror on the wall. I sure don't look like no bargain. You will, when we're through with you, Drew began. The Texan swung around. Lookie here. You're thinking of grubstaking. I ain't gonna. Suppose you had yourself a stack of cartwheels, and my pockets were too lit. Drew retorted, I think I remember sometimes when we had one blanket and a hunk of hardtack between us, and there weren't any yours or mine about it.

Or don't you think back that far. Ants laughed. All right, compadre. Pretty me up like a new stake rope on a thirty-dollar pony. If I don't agree, likely you'll trip up my foreleg and reshoe me anyway. Right now... I'll say it out good and clear. I'm so poor, my backbone rattles when I cough. Mr. Kirby, Hamlet Clark came in. Mr. Nye says to tell you he'll be back. Mr. Shannon is in bed at the doctor's. He's going to be all right, as soon as he gets over a mighty big headache. He had actually forgotten Shannon. Hastily, Drew expressed his satisfaction at the news, and added, "'This is my cousin from Texas, Hamilcar. He hit town riding light. I'm going over to pick him up a new outfit at Stein's.

You give him all the rest, will you?' "'Yes, sir.' Blue blouses, a corporal's guard of troopers, were pulling up by the canteen to hitch rail as Drew came out into the plaza. Mueller's men, probably, he thought, but now he was more intent on Anse's needs. Few people—' Had ever broken through the crust of self-sufficiency, the Kentuckian had begun to grow in early childhood. His grandfather's bitter hatred of his father had made Drew an outsider at Red Springs from birth, and had finally driven him away to join General Morgan in 62. Those he had ever cared about he could list on the fingers of one sun-brown, rain-hardened hand. Cousin Meredith, her son Shelly, He had died at Chickamauga between one short breath and the next.

Shelley's younger brother Boyd, who had run away to join Morgan, too, in the sunset of the Raiders' career, and Anse, whom he had believed dead until this past hour. Drew was breathing as fast as if he had charged across the Sunbake Plaza at a run, when he came into the General Store, which supplied to Baca. With nine-tenths of the materials necessary for frontier living, he made his selection with care. "'You planning a trip, Mr. Kirby?' Stein peered at him over a pair of old-fashioned, steel-bowed spectacles which perched on his sharp parrot's beak of a nose. "'No, my cousin just rode in. He lost his gear on the road and needs a new outfit complete.' Stein nodded. Pat it smooth, the top shirt on a growing pile.

Anything else? Add those up, I'll look around. Drew paused to glance into the single small, glass-fronted case which was Stein's claim to fame in the surrounding territory. The exotic wares on display were a strange mixture, a few pieces of jewelry, heavy Spanish things which might be a century or more old, several six-guns, one with an ornate ivory handle. Drew stopped and pulled a finger across the dusty surface of the glass case. Spurs, silver spurs, not quite so elaborate as those he now wore, but of the same general workmanship. I'd like to look at those spurs. Stein unlocked the case and took them out. As Drew unstrapped those he wore and fitted the new pair to his boots, a brown calf-bound book, Thudded to the floor.

Books? Herein' Steins? Weighing the volume in his hand, the Kentuckians straightened up. There were two more books lying on the top of the case. The leather bindings were scuffed, and one was scored clear across the back. Yet they had been handsome, undoubtedly treasured. Drew turned them up to read the scrolled gold titles on their spines. History of the Conquest of Mexico The Three Musketeers. The Count of Monte Cristo. Where'd these come from, Mr. Stein? Drew's curiosity was aroused. That is a story almost as fanciful as the ones inside them. Stein rested his bony elbows on the counter as he talked. Would you believe, Mr. Kirby? These were brought to me by Amos Lutterfield. Lutterfield? Who's he?

I forget. You have not been in Tabaka long, Amos Lutterfield. He is what one might term a character, a strange one. He goes out into the wilds alone, seeking always the gold. In Apache country, Drew demanded. The Apaches, they do not touch a man they believe insane, and Amos has many peculiarities, peculiarities of dress, of speech, of action. He roams undisturbed. and sometimes comes in with relics from the old cliff houses to trade for supplies. Last month he told me a story of a cave where he found a trunk. Where it had come from or why it was hidden he did not know, but these books were in it. Like some men who have no formal education, Amos is highly respectful of the printed word. He thought the books of great value and so brought them here.

Drew opened the top volume. Back home, books as well-bound as these would have carried a personal book-plate, or at least the written name of the owner, but the fly-leaf was bare. They had the look of well-read, cherished volumes, but no mark of possession. "'You have read these?' Thine asked. Drew picked up the three musketeers. "'Not likely to forget this one,' he said, grinning. "'Earn me a good ten with a cane.' When I read it, instead of dealing faithfully with Caesar's campaigns in Gaul. I did get to finish it before I was caught out. The pages separated stiffly under his exploring fingers, as if the volume had not been opened for a long time. He did not notice that Stein was eyeing him with new appraisal.

These for sale? In Stein's, everything is for sale. The storekeeper named the price... And Drew bargained. When he left, the three books reposed on the top of his armload of clothing, and half an hour later he dropped them down on a cantina table. Anse came from the bathhouse and sat down in the opposite chair. His booted foot moved, but now rowel points flashed in the sun. The Texan regarded the Mexican Spurs joyfully, stooped to jingle them with his fingertip. Can't believe it, how they came back to you, he marveled. One of them Yankees must have took them off me, thinking I was catching in my chips. Sure feels good to get them back on my heels again. Sort of like they was my luck. Pa, he set a right lot by them Spurs.

Gave them to me. When I gentle broke a wild one, no one of the other boys could back. Was I turkey-cocked proud that first day I rode into town. With them playing pretty tunes, even though I strapped them on over boots, as was only three pieces of leather hanging to each other, restless-like. Yeah, Pa, he got them in the Mexican War, and me, I wore mostly through this past ruckus. They sure seen a lot of history being made by men climbing up and down from saddles. Let's hope no more wars. Drew set the three books in a pile. And regarded them attentively. Stein's story of their origin, out of a trunk hidden in a desert cave, was most intriguing. What else had been in that trunk? Ants, he asked.

Why would anyone hide a trunk in a cave? Might depend on what was in it, the Texan replied promptly. Well, these were... Ants took up the top book. His finger traced each word as he read. The three musketeers. Whatever kind of critter is that? A soldier. They used to have him over in France a long time ago. Army manual, huh? Maybe so the trunk was an army cache. Drew shook his head. No, this is just a story. A good one, with lots of prime fightin' in it. This one's a story, too. I've heard about it. Never got a chance to read it, though. He set the Count of Monte Cristo upright on the table. Anse took the third volume. Con? Conquest of Mexico? Hey, conquest means winning the country, don't it?

This about the Mex war, which our pas fought? He flicked open the pages eagerly. Know the earlier one, when the Spanish came in under Cortez and broke up the Aztec Empire back in the 1500s. Kinda stiff readin' looks interesting, though. Anse gave his verdict. We had us two books. Pa learned us to read out of them. One was the Bible Ma brought along when she was married. The other, that sure was kind of queer how we got that. Pa was in the Rangers, and he had this run-in with some Comanches. Anse's eyes were suddenly bleak, and Drew remembered the few stark sentences the Texan had once spoken. to explain his reason for being in the Army. He returned to a frontier ranch to find nothing left, nothing he wanted to remember, after the Comanches had swept across the countryside.

Well, Anse broke that short pause. Pa shot him one big buck, as was riding straight into the Ranger line, wanting to count one of them coos by wagging some white man's personal with his lance, or some such foolishness. This buck had him a war shield, and Pa picked it up when all the smoke blew away. What do you think that their shield was packed with? Well, this one had a book. All tore apart and stuffed in between the front and back layers of the hide. The boys in the company, they got right interested in sorting out all them pages and putting them in order again. Kind of like a game, Pa said. Pa, he'd never had much schooling. But he could read good, and write in figure. He sure liked to read, so he claimed that there book when it was all tied up together again, cause he had shot the book as was carrying the shield.

So he made a buckskin case, and kept all the pages together. That was about soldiers of the old time, too. Parts of it. Romans, they was called. Wonder now. Did it maybe go back into a shield again afterward? He gazed beyond Drew's shoulder. into the world outside the cantina door. Why would anyone want to store books in a trunk in a cave? Drew changed the subject quickly to break that unseen stare. He outlined what Stein had told him, and Anse's attention was all his again. Might catch up with this letterfield and ask a few questions. Stein couldn't get anything out of him, guess the old man is a little addled. Maybe someone... Was storing stuff, hoping to come back when the war was over. Anyway, there's no way to identify the owner or owners.

Ants picked up the three musketeers. You say this is good? About fighting and such? Drew nodded. Try it. Something like this is good to have, and hombre gets tired reading labels on cans. I'd like to see how much paw pushed into my thick head. Good covering, this book has. Wouldn't you say that, as the hombre that had it, was kind of heavy in the pocket? Yes, in fact, these were bound to order. How can you tell that? These two might have come bound to like. Drew pointed to the book, Anse Held, and the Count of Monte Cristo. They were written by the same author, and could have been part of a matched set. But this one is on a totally different subject, and by another writer, Prescott. Yet it is uniformly bound.

To match the others, I'd say they came from the personal library of a man able to indulge himself in pretty expensive tastes. Makes you think, Ants agreed. Wonder what else was in that trunk. Lookie what we got here. Regular little schoolhouse, right in this cantina. The table moved an inch or so, as a thick body brought up with a rush against it. A hand. Matted with sun-bleached hair, made a grab for the book Drew had just laid down. Before the startled Kentuckian could pull it back from that grasp, hand and book were gone, and the trooper who had taken it was reeling back to the bar, waving his trophy over his head. "'Schoolhouse right here,' he mouthed. Sitting there, two little boys, studying their lessons.

Now ain't that something.' A chair went over with a crash. Anse was on his feet, had taken two steps in the direction of the soldier. Drew jumped after him, trying to assess the situation, even as his hand closed restrainingly on the Texan's shoulder. There were four troopers. Wide grins on the faces of the three, still against the bar, suggested they were ready to back their companion in any form of horseplay he intended to try. Sam. One of them there schoolboys is breathing down your neck, kind of hot-like, the tallest of the bar row observed. Ants jerked against Drew's hold. There was no expression on his thin face, but the old saber scar, from lip to eye on his left cheek, was suddenly twice as noticeable.

Sam reached up against the bar, squirmed around, the book still in his hand. Well now, Sonny. You ain't really wanting this here book back. Never knowed any little boy, but weren't glad to see the last of a book. Better get away from a real man, before you gets your backside warmed. That's what the teacher does to smarty kids, ain't it? You'd better watch out, Sam. Again the tall man cut in. Sam was still grinning, but there was a curve of lip which was far from any real humor. Even that provoked. By the practical jokes of a barracks bully. One of them kids has been sayin' as how he rode with Forrest. Regular little red-hot Reb he is. Stomp all over us. That's what you Rebs have been promising to do, ain't it?

Gonna stomp all over any bluebellies as comes into this town. Well, we ain't been booted, not easy, and not by you, Reb. A second, perhaps more. That much warning, Drew had, before the speaker lurched from the bar straight at him. What had happened? How had this sprung up out of nothing? The Kentuckian could not understand, but he knew well that he was under an attack delivered with a purpose, and with all the dirty tricks of a no-rules back-alley fighter.

8 08 - Chapter 8 21:59

Only once before, when some river-tuffs had ganged up on the scouts, had Drew had to use fists to beat his way out of an argument. But that had been a round dance at courthouse day compared to this. Within moments the Kentuckian knew that he was no match for the trooper, that he would be lucky If he could get out of this unmaned. The fellow knew every dirty trick, and was eager to use them all. Drew tried only to keep on his feet and out of the other's grip. Once down, he knew he would have no chance at all. Then he was jerked back off balance, staggering on to bring up against the wall. He caught at the solid backing, and somehow remained upright, seeing hazily through one eye. The other was puffed-closed, and his lip was torn, a trickle of blood rising there to drip down his chin.

He put both hands to his middle, where more than one of the pile-drivers' knocks had landed, and tried to understand what was happening. Sergeant Mueller. That was Mueller standing over the man on the floor. And nigh, Rhys Toppin. Suddenly the cantina was very well populated. Drew turned his head cautiously to see on his blind side. Ants was down. The Kentuckian stood away from the wall, lurched out to fall to his knees. He rolled the Texan over on his back. Ants' eyes fluttered open, and he looked up dazedly. There was an angry red mark on his chin just an inch or so away from the point of his jaw. Now, what the devil's business is going on here? The sergeant's voice was a roar to hurt the ears.

Somehow Drew got an arm under Ants' shoulders and tried to hoist them up. The Kentuckian swallowed blood from his lip and glared at Mueller. Suppose, you ask, those high binders of yours, he snapped, and once more it was Sergeant Rennie who spoke. Other hands joined his to boost Ants. With Toppen's aid, Drew regained his feet. And got the staggering Texan, still half unconscious, onto a chair. I'm interested, too. The canteen as owners draw was as slow as ever, but it held a note of a whiplash. Them soldiers, Fowler appeared, the bar side shotgun across his arm. They jumped the boys. I saw it myself. Yeah. Told you these town buzzards are all the same. Stick together and have it in for the Army.

Drew could not see which one of the troopers had burst out with that, but in his present mood all bluecoats were the enemy. Dirty Yanks, Anse's eyes were fully focused now, right on the sergeant. Anse struggled to get up, but Topham's hands on his shoulder held him down. His hand went to his holster, and Drew's fist came down on the Texan's wrist hard. See that there, Sarge? The stinking polecat of a reb was gonna draw on you. Told you they're all alike. The war ain't over. We just gotta keep on licking them. Give us room, and we'll do it again. Now. Anse's face was green-white, under the weathering, save for the wound on his jaw. He was watching Mueller as if the sergeant, rather than his men, was the focal point of any future attack.

You, Stevens, shut your trap. Mueller's roar. The man brought silence. Drew could actually hear the panting breaths of the men now. Mitchell, what happened here? Mueller turned to the man at his far right. The trooper was younger than to rest, his face still holding something of a boyish roundness. His eyes shifted under the sergeant's steady, boring stare, and he glared at the rest of his companions. The two disheveled fighters, the lanky man picking up a forage cap and handed it to one of them. I dunno, Sergeant. The boys, they was just funnin'. They didn't mean nothin', just funnin'. Then these here Rebs, they come right after Helms, and was goin' to jump him from behind. And Danny waded in, just to keep that one.

The boy pointed straight at Drew, off of Helms. That's what happened. The boys didn't mean no harm, just havin' a little fun when these Rebs jumped them. Drew pulled up his neckerchief. And dabbed at his cut lip. Anse had subsided, though he was still watching the sergeant with an unrelenting gaze. The Kentuckian tried to remember where Fowler had been during the fracas. He had spoken up for them already, but would Mueller accept his testimony over that of his own men? There was already ill-feeling between the Army and the town. Drew remembered Don Cazar's encounter with Bayliss at Kell's stable. What had Rhys Toppin said then? That the Captain was only waiting to make trouble for Rennie, and now here he was, himself, one of Rennie's riders, involved in a saloon fight with troopers.

Drew began to realize that this could be even worse than the physical punishment he and Ants had suffered. "'You, bartender,' the Sergeant now looked at Fowler, "'what did you see?' "'He ain't gonna take his word for it.'" For anything in this mud-hole of a town, are you, Sarge? They'd all lie their heads off to get a trooper into trouble, wouldn't you, now? The lanky man sighted along the bar to snarl at Fowler. "'Stevens, shut that big mouth of yours, and I ain't gonna say that again. All right, Fowler, tell me what you saw.' Fowler slid the shotgun out of sight, apparently sure that an armistice, at least, was assured. The boys, he nodded at Drew and Ants, were sitting at that table, minding their own business.

Helms, he went over and picked up a book. A book? Mueller's craggy features merited astonishment. What book? Why? Topham moved, and suddenly they were all watching him. He stooped, picked up the dark brown volume, and a torn page fluttered to the floor. He gathered that up, too, and tucked it back in the proper place. It would seem, Sergeant, he remarked, that there was a book involved. And if your men didn't bring it in here, then Kirby or his friend must have. That is certainly not a canteen of fixture. Hmm. History of the Conquest of Mexico. He read the title on the cracked spine. There are more books, I see. He stepped to the side of the overturned table, gathered the other two volumes, and placed them together in a neat pile on the bar.

All of the men continued to watch him, as if his actions were highly significant. So, he turned to face Mueller. We have established that there was a book, in fact three books. What'd you want with that book, Helms? Mueller demanded. He was met by a scowl. Nothing. I was just funnin', like Ben said. Then, then Rebs started playin' rough, and we just gave him a lesson.

Fowler snorted. I'd say Helms started it, and the jumping went the other way round, Sergeant, and that's all I got to say. Well, it isn't all I have to say, Sergeant, just what is going on here? Whoever, having once heard the turkey-cocked crow, could ever forget it, thought Drew. Captain Bayless strode in. Powdery white dust, gray in his blue blouse, his face redder and more sun-peeled than ever. The troopers behind Mueller stiffened in the wooden soldiers, all expression vanishing from their features until they matched each other in exact anonymity. Sergeant, take those two men into custody. A jerk of the head indicated Drew and Anse. The Kentuckians straightened. On what charge, Captain, he got out?

Attacking a United States soldier. In performance of his duty, Captain, Rhys Toppen put in... "'I hardly think you can say that. Your men were apparently off duty. At least they were in here drinking, too.' "'You did serve them, Fowler?' "'Sure did, boss. Let me see now. Helms, he had whiskey. So did Stevens. Mitchell, now. He had a beer.' "'It remains that they were attacked while wearing the uniform,' Baylis's glare now included the full company before him. "'From what I've heard, they did the attackin.' Toppen pointed out. At least Helm seems to have given provocation. No, Captain Bayliss. Your men were in here drinking. They started a brawl. Your sergeant very rightly broke it up. That's the sum of the matter.

Bayliss's high color was fading. You want it left that way, Toppen? he asked icily. This only confirms my contention that matters in Tabaka are completely out of control, that the rebel element... "'That's your privilege,' Topham nodded. "'But this is still Tabaka, and not your camp, Captain, and my cantina. If you want to declare my establishment out of bounds for your men, that is also your privilege.' "'I do so immediately. Sergeant, get these men out of here.' "'What about the prisoners, sir?' "'I think the Captain will agree there are no prisoners,' Topham said. We would be obliged to give evidence at any Army hearing, Captain. Kirby here is not a troublemaker. I would unhesitatingly vouch for him."

Bayliss looked directly at Drew. You have a job? Any reason for being in town? He shot the questions, as he might have shot slugs from his colt. Nye answered before Drew could. He sure has a job, Cap'n. He's riding the rough string for Rennie. And he came to town with them remounts you're buyin'. And what Topham says is true. The kid ain't no troublemaker. He's about the most peaceful hombre I ever rode with. Ride for Rennie, huh? I might have known, Bayless snapped. And what about this one? He ridin' for Rennie, too? He pointed to Anse. He's my cousin, Drew, returned. He just got into town. Another rebel? Anse stood up. If you mean was I with a Confederate Army Yankee, I sure was, from Shiloh clean through.

Got me this to prove it. Do you want to see? From the inner band of his hat, he brought out a much-creased paper. No, you don't. He twitched the sheet away when Bayliss reached for it. I'll just let Mr. Toppin read it. I want to keep it safe. He handed the paper to the gambler. Parole, Captain. Signed and made out properly, Topton reported. Dated in Tennessee, for a prisoner of war, June 1865. I hardly think you can claim this is one of Kitchell's men, if that is what you have in mind. No, but he'll be out of this town, or he'll answer to me, both of you, next time you step over the line. I'm taking you both in. Bayless spoke now to Nye. I heard young Shannon was here, that you had him in tow.

And that he's seen Kitchell. I want to talk to him. He's over to the docks, and the dock'll have a say about that, Captain. Nye replied. Johnny took a pretty bad crease alongside his skull. He'll answer a few questions that badly need answering. Bayliss was already on his way to the door. Nye stepped back and let him pass. He grinned. Let him have it out with Doc. Ain't nobody running the stampede over Doc Matthews. Not even the captain, when he's got his tail up and ready to hook sod with both horns. Only listen here, kid. Maybe you'd better keep out of sight. Seems like a man who's waiting to catch a fella making his boot mark in the wrong pasture can sometimes do it. Nigh's right, Topham agreed.

Bayless can either catch you off guard, or see you're provoked again into doing something he can rope you in for. I'd get back to the range and stay there. "'Until things settle down a little, and someone else takes the good captain's mind off you.' "'What about ants? You take them on nigh?' Drew asked. "'Ain't got the authority to hire Kirby, but no reason why he can't get down the trail with us. Old man is always on the lookout for a good rider.' "'Soon as we see how Johnny's doing, we'll head south. Already sent Grayfeather back to tell the old man the kid's hurt, and up here. Reese, what do you think about Bayliss?' Think he'll try to take over running the town? Might just, the gambler replied.

Could he do it? I hardly think so. What he's really out for is Hunt's hide. He doesn't want a powerful civilian, ready to face up to him all the time. If he can discredit Don Cazar in this country, he figures he has it made. Nye laughed shortly. Lordy, what bottle did he suck out a dream like that? The lizard might just as well try to fight it out with a cougar, and think he had a chance of winning. This here's the range, and ain't nobody but the old man runs the range. Bayliss, he's riding for a fall, as will jar them big grinning teeth right out of his jaws. Maybe. Only there can be upsets. Toppen looked thoughtful. What kind, and how? Drew asked quickly. Toppen was playing with the three books, setting them up.

Putting them flat again. Hunt didn't take sides during the war, but he did have Southern sympathies in part. After all, he was Texas born, and Johnny joined Howard when they raised a Confederate troop here. He retreated with Sibley's force back east, and fought through the rest of the war on the Southern side. Yes, Bayliss, given the right circumstances, and a sympathetic listening ear in high circles, could make trouble for Rennie. Especially if the good captain had an incident on which to hang such a report. You kinda shoved him into that out-of-bounds order for the Jacks, didn't you, now? Nye pushed his hat to the back of his head and lit a cigarillo. Mueller and most of the boys can be counted on, not to cause any more than normal payday night disturbances.

But there's some. What did happen here today, Kirby? Drew told it straight and flat. In as few words as possible, and Topham's face was sober when he had finished. The gambler brought the top book of the pile down on the bar with a thud. I don't like it. Just ordinary meanness, weren't it? There's always a few hombres in any outfit as tries to push when they gets a slug or two under their belts, and I observed. True. Only Helms went out of his way this time, and I'd like to know what triggered him into it. I can understand some rough-housing on his part. Stephen's, too. Providing these boys were on the prod in the beginning. But this book business was too deliberate. Books? He held up the volume he was still fingering.

Where'd these come from, anyway, Kirby? True retailed the story he had heard from Stein. Nye walked over to look at the display of reading matter, his interest plainly aroused. Lutterfield bought him in, huh? Now that's something. Trunk in a cave. Sounds like these might belong to one of the mine men. A super, maybe. They pulled out fast in 61, right after the Army left, except for Hodges, and the Rebs threw him in jail, after they took his business and what cash he had on hand. Could be, Toppin agreed. But where they came from doesn't matter as much. As why Helms chose to use them the way he did. However, and now I'm giving it to you straight, Kirby, this is once I'd follow Bayliss's order. You and your cousin here had better make yourself scarce.

And just why, Anse demanded, we ain't giving you any double-tongue wag over this. I'm not saying you are. I'm just saying that Bayliss, and probably Helms, and maybe others, will be waiting just as the captain promised. You could be easily suckered into such another fight, and they'd be smarter about it next time, so you won't have anyone to call their bluff in your favor. Once they get you into that camp stockade, it might be difficult to get you out. And this is something else, stranger. You went for your gun a few minutes ago. Kirby stopped you, but the next time, that could lead to real trouble. I can't see why, Drew began. Well... "'Anse was on the defensive. A man can take just so much pushin'.

And we had more'n' that. Next time anybody lays his dirty hands on me, he's gonna know he's had him trouble, all right.' "'I don't mean that,' Drew waved Anse's retort aside. "'I don't see why we were jumped in the first place, unless it was because we happened to be here at a time when they wanted to start trouble.' He made that into a question. and looked atop him for an answer. Could be, the gambler admitted. Only you're not sure, Drew persisted. Could be that you were handy, and they had some kind of hint to start a ruckus just to show there ain't any proper law here. Could be that they knew you ride for hunt, and that made you just a game they wanted. Hell, this is kind of dumb to play any cute game, and I protested, and the Sarge...

He's always been a good guy. I don't see him bitin' happy on any such backhand orders." Not orders, no. Captain Bayless is still too army to give any such orders. Helms always has been a troublemaker, and he wouldn't need much more than a suggestion or two of the right sort. Helms, Stephen. Danny Burke. And that Kid Mitchell. You're right so far, Nye, Toppin grinned. Like as not, I'm imagining things. A greenhorn hunting apaches behind every bush. None of that crew has the brains to see anything beyond the tip of their nose. No, I guess we can take it that you were handy, and they had too much red-eye on empty stomachs. Only I mean it, Kirby. You walk soft and get back to the range as quick as you can.

That suits me, Drew agreed. "'Come on over, and let Doc take a look at that face of yours,' Nye ordered. "'You look like you came up, behind a mule, and the critter did a mite of dancing backwards. You come along, too?' He extended the invitation to include Ants. His face patched up after a fashion. Drew lay full length on the hay, and his old place over Shadow's stall back at Kell's stable. Ants sat cross-legged beside him. The bruise... Now a black shadow on his jaw. Something about this show's bad, playing as a black saddle on a white horse. Nobody could be fanning a six-gun for you personal, Drew, lest you had a run-in before with one of them bluebellies. The Texan paused, and Drew shook his head, wincing at the pain from his numerous cuts and bruises.

Ants went on. Some hombres are always on the peck. Once they get liquored up, And them troopers weren't that deep. Looks to me now, thinking it over, they was out to make sod fly. Could be, as they had trouble with some other riders, and we was handy and looked peaceable enough to take easy. But I don't know. You know, a fella who scouted and hunted Indians, and popped bush cattle to say nothing to top and wild ones. What can look like a nice quiet little pony one minute? And have a belly full of bed-springs, and a sky touching his back the next, the fellow who had him all, that kind of experience, and a saddlebag full of surprises in his time, get so he can smell a storm comin' for the first cloud shows.

If we had the sense we should have been born with, we'd ride Hell to Thunder out of here now. "'Ans,' Drew wiggled up on one elbow. You do that, I ain't gonna pull you into anything.' So, the Texan said, nodding, you've been swallowing down a whim-wham or two your own self. Yes, but every one of them could be only a shadow to scare a jackrabbit. Only you plan to go out and spit in the shadow's eye? Guess so. Then there'll be two of us, provided Rennie can use him another hand. You know this might be interesting. Remember what they used to say in the Army? Don't go borrowing trouble, nor try to cross a river. Till you get the water lappin' at your boots.

9 09 - Chapter 9 21:20

Times is getting better. Crowfenner rode with one knee cocked up over the horn of his saddle, allowing Tar to drop into a pace at which he seemed to be actually sleepwalking. The wagon-train was traveling slow, the wagons riding heavy in the ruts, with their burden of northern goods heading south. But they were strung in good order, and Drew, having seen the screen of outriders and Pima scouts, thought that they offered temptation. They were not to be easily taken by anything less than a small troop, very well armed and reckless. Yes, siree, this here's the second time we made the trip through without having to burn up a sight of gunpowder. Guess them army boys milling around? Back and forth across the territory do some good after all.

Pretty soon there won't be no need for wearin' guns loose and tryin' to grow eyes in the back of your skull. But Fenner's own rifle still rode on guard across his knees, and Drew noted that the scout never broke a searching survey of the countryside. Getting downright civilized, huh? Anse brought his mount up equal with the other two. Fenner spat. Now that there I ain't cottonin' to none. Ride long without some injin' or bandito poppin' lead at my back. Yup. That's what a man can enjoy. But I ain't takin' to have maybe one of them thar injin' trains snortin' out dirty smoke and sparks hereabouts. Took me a ride on one of them things once, never again. Why a man wants to get himself all stuck up with cinders.

and cover territory faster than the good Lord ever intended him to travel. That's some stupid thinking I can't take to. A good horse, maybe a wagon, does a man want to do some trading like Don Cazar that's right enough? But them trains, they're sure pizzing and a full sopping keg of it. Drew looked about him, the road rutted deep by the heavy wagons. Curled southward, those wheel tracks had first been cut almost a hundred years earlier, when the Spaniards had set up their southwestern outposts. This country was far older than Kentucky, and with just as bloody a history of wars, raids, and battles. Kentucky had been tamed, trains did puff along through the bluegrass and the mountains there, but here he shook his head in answer to his own thoughts.

"'Ain't nobody gonna try and run a railroad through here,' Ants replied promptly. First place, they're gonna be busy for a while back east, putting up new ones for all them that were busted up in the war. Our boys and theirs, too, got real experts toward the end, and could heat up a rail and tie a regular noose in it, or some tree handy to rope it round. Gonna take the Yankees some doing to get all them back into place." He laughed. Drew, remember that time we took them river steamers and had us a real feed? Times when I was in that Yankee stockade, eating the swill they called rations, I used to dream about them pickles and canned peaches and crackers with long sweetening pouring on them. Heard tell, as you boys don't think the war's clear over yet, Fanner observed.

Didn't you have yourself a ruckus with the soldiers? At the Four Jacks. Drew's reminiscent smile faded, but he was not going to keep on protesting about the right or wrong of what happened back in town. The way Nye and Topham had hustled Anse and him out with the wagon train had made it seem as if they were in disgrace, and that rankled a lot. What was expected of them, that they should have left Helms's port on, maybe serve as butts. For a series of practical jokes without raising a finger in their own defense. On the other hand, the Kentuckian could see the sense behind Topham's arguments. If Bayless wanted to use Drew's connection with the range as a weapon in some scheme against Hunt Rennie, then Hunt Rennie's son was only too willing to clear out.

Perhaps he should clear out even farther and head for California. Drew began to think about that. There was Sage. She couldn't hope to make such a trip for maybe six months. That would mean putting off traveling until next spring or early summer. But six months? Of course he could go now. Don Cazar would buy the full and shadow, too, and give him a fair price. That would be relinquishing a dream. No spur-ar-brand would ever be established here in Arizona. But sometimes dreams were priced too high. "'Your mighty grim mouth,' Anse commented, glancing at Drew sideways. "'Thinking of trains running through here get you down that far? Or else that roughing up you took in town? Still sit sour on your stomach?' "'Sit sour, all right,' Drew admitted.

"'Sit sour to think we were suckered into it.' The scout glanced from one to the other of the young men. "'You think there's something in all that talk Toppin was giving lip to?' Anse asked. Could be. Can't say. That's how I'd like to find out the truth. Look here, Fenner. We heard a lot about Captain Bayless, wanting to make trouble for Don Cazar. Does everybody believe that?" Everybody what ain't blind, death or out of their natural-born wits, Fenner replied. Bayless come out here two years ago. For that, Major Kenny. He was in command between here and Tucson. He had him in Outpost right on the edge of the range. Him and Don Cazar, they never talked no war, except against the Pachys and the Banditos.

Was there a raid? The Major, he took out the troops, and Don Cazar, he took out his riders and the Pimas. Tween them, they gave everybody what wanted a spot of trouble, all they could chew off, and a lot more than they could swallow. Kept things quiet, even if a man had to rest his hand on his rifle. About twenty-four hours out of every day. But this here Bayliss, he's been like a mule with a burr under his tail ever since he hit the territory. Wants to have the say about everything, including what goes on at the range, which he ain't never gonna have as long as Don Cazar can sit in the saddle and ride. Back in 62, when the Rebs came pounding in here, they spoke soft and nice to Don Cazar. They wanted him to back their play and see him straight on to California.

He was from Texas, and them Texas boys just naturally thought as how he'd saddle up and ride along with them. Only he said it loud and clear that such ruckusin' around only meant the whole country here'd go to pot. When the army pulled out, the Apaches got it into their heads as how they had finally licked us, good and proper, and this here was their country for the taken. Nearly was, too. Then the Rebs got up on their high horse, and said how ifin Don Cazar wasn't with them, then he was against them, and they would just move in on him. He told them to go ahead and try. And seems as how there was only one company hereabouts, Howard's Rangers. They didn't try. That's when Johnny Shannon had his big bust up with his pa, and...

His father? Drew could not help the exclamation. Well, Don Cazar ain't Johnny's real pa, of course, but he sure thinks the world and all of Johnny, raising him up from a little cub. Johnny want more'n four, thereabouts, when Don Cazar went back to Texas and got him. Don Cazar has been like a pa to Johnny since, and a mighty good one, too. But when the Rangers were around here in 62, Johnny, he had a big row and run off to join him. Just a half-grown kid, not big enough to raise a good bush of hair on his chin yet. When the Yankee boys from California came marching in and the Rebs had to skedaddle, Johnny, he went with them. Didn't see Johnny round here again till last fall, when he came riding in, looking mighty beat out and down in the mouth.

But when the Union men came, they was thinking the same about Don Cazar. Wanted him to jump right in. and swim longside of him. But he says as how the safety of his people was what was important. He was fighting Apaches and holding the land, and that was what meant the most to his thinking. Then the Yankees did a lot of fancy cussing out about him, trying to make out that he was a Reb, cause Johnny led off with the Southerners. Till they began to discover nothing much goes on around here, less than Don Cazar has a finger in the pot. And they had to swallow a lot of them hot and hasty words. Stuck heavy in quite a few craws, I reckon. Fenner grinned. Only the Don. He's got again him. Now a big list of little men who'd like to be big chiefs.

Every once in a while they gets together and makes war talk. Never quite got up guts enough to paint their faces and hit the trail. Not yet. But somebody, like Bayliss, Looks like he's beginning to make things move, and then he'd have a lot of willing hands to help him shove. Up to now, Johnny's been their best bet at getting the range into trouble. Drew turned his head to look Fener in the eye. Now you think we are? He did not know why he uttered that as a challenge. The words just came out that way. Not any more than any of us want can be drawn into a fight in town. You keep away from Bayliss. He can't come hunting you without tipping his hand, so wide he'd never be able to play again. Hey, here comes somebody pounding leather so hard, he's going to beat it right into the ground.

Fenner pulled up Tar, flung up his hand to signal the wagons to a halt. Dust rolled in a cloud, with two or three riders at its center. They were pushing the pace all right. Drew jerked his carbine from its saddle boot. I saw Ant's Beat him to that action by a scant second or two. But the newcomers were already drawing rein, bringing their foam-lathered horses to a pawing stop. A buckskin-clad man, mounted on a powerful gorilla-gelding, faced Fenner, his whole tense body and snapping eyes backing the demand he made. Where's Johnny? Back at town, Rennie, at docks. He ain't bad. Got him a head crease, but knocked him silly for a bit. Doc says a day or two in bed, and then he can come home. How did it happen?

That second question was as sharp as the first. Nobody got it straight out of him yet. Army patrol picked him up on the road close to town. Looked like he'd been footing it for quite a spell, and by that time he didn't know what he was doing. Now I got him to Doc's, and they put him to bed. He ain't said much, cept Kitchell jumped him. Down Long Canyon Way. Kitchell? Hunt Rennie repeated the name and nodded. But Long Canyon? There was a shade of puzzlement in his voice. All right, carry on, Crow. I'll try to get back to the stronghold before you pull south. If Johnny's all right, maybe I can bring him back with me. The Gruulah made what was close to a standing leap into a gallop, and Rennie flashed along the line of wagons.

In the opposite direction, towards Dibaka. Fenner signaled once more, and the wagon train began the slower trip southward. Drew sat watching the dust rise again as the trio of riders pounded away. He could no longer make out individual riders, just a rising dust. Rennie on his way to Johnny Shannon. What had Fenner said? Little cub, weren't more than four? Drew Rennie at four? Hard to sort out one memory from another. There had been that time Uncle Murray had caught him down at the creek, making paper boats. How could a child that young know one kind of paper from another? But Hot Rennie's son was judged to have torn up a letter with deliberate malice, not just taking paper found conveniently on the veranda.

Was he four then, or even younger? But he could remember the punishment very vividly. And the time he run off to see the circus come into town. He and Shelley, Cousin Jeff, Cousin Mary, they had tried to beg him off from Grandfather's punishment that time, not that they had succeeded. Drew Rennie at four, at six, at twelve, at sixteen. Riding out at night was Castleman's Company, weaving a path south through enemy-occupied territory to join General Morgan. Few of those would-be cavalrymen over twenty-one. Yes, he could remember for Drew Rennie all the way back. Hey, you planning to claim this here rage? Anse's horse trotted up, and Drew was suddenly aware that the trailer of the last wagon had already pulled past him.

He tightened rein, and the well-trained horse broke into a canter. Not hardly. He tried to meet Anse's attempt at humor halfway. Don't look too promising. Listen here," Ants wrote so close that their spurs were near to hitting. You sure you got hold of the right end of the running iron now? What do you mean? Well, about Shannon. You heard what Fenner said. Rennie's like a paw to him, and maybe his voice died away. And maybe that's that. He has my place, and it's really his now. Drew asked bleakly. Could be. Yes, it could well be that this was a good time to bow out. Maybe he should not have ridden out of Tabaka at all. Maybe he should have cut out of the game yesterday, or never come down into the valley weeks ago, or left Red Springs, those babies, stretches far back and as neatly in line as the railroad tracks they had been talking about earlier, one slipping smoothly into another.

As if cast in one strong string of doubts. Just as he had had the moment of disappointment the first time he had seen Hunt Rennie, so he felt that identical void now, only twice as wide and deep. What had he expected, anyway? Some kind of instant recognition on his father's part? That all the welcoming would be on the other side, breaking right through the barrier he had been building for years. His feelings were so illogical he could have laughed at them, only he had no laughter left. He had not tried to open the door, so why did he care if it remained firmly shut? Did you ever think about California ants? Sounds like a place a man would like to see. He was conscious that the Texan's horse quickened pace, only to be reined in again.

You thinking about cutting out yesterday? Yesterday, Drew tried to think back to how he had felt yesterday about Toppin's warning, and how he himself had held the absurd belief that if Don Cazar was going to be in trouble, Drew himself wanted to be there. That was yesterday, but still he pointed his horse south to the place where Hunt Rennie would return, bringing Johnny Shannon. The Kentuckian fell back on the old wait-and-see. He had learned, long since, that time took care of a lot of worries. Now he made himself grin at ants. Was worrying about wet feet before my boots were in the river again, he confessed. Don't let it get to be no habit, the Texan warned. You try riding with the bumps a while, not against them.

Agreed. Drew urged his horse on toward the front of the train, where they wouldn't have to breathe the dust. My cousin Anson Kirby. Drew made the introduction to Bartolome Rivas. The wagons were forted up outside the stronghold, a second square, smaller, but almost as easily defended as the adobe walls. In two or three days the train would pull out again, starting the long trip down into Sonora. Rivas surveyed Anson not too amicably, his gaze going from man to horse and its gear. Then back to the Texan once more. "'You are Tejano,' he said flatly, "'from Nueza?' Anse showed no surprise at being so accurately identified. "'Been bush-popping,' he agreed, smiling. "'Not much cattle here,' Rivas returned.

"'Run horses in the San Saba for the war,' Anse's tone was offhand. He might have been discussing the weather. "'Don Cazard decides,' Bartholome said. There is work at the corrals, but he will decide. Fair enough, Anse agreed. When Bartolome had moved out of hearing, he had it for Drew's benefit. I think it'd be no if that hombre had the saying. He plumb don't like my style. But Rennie does need men. Guards for the wagon trains. Riders. Anse shrugged as he off-saddled. Will he want one? Has got into a brawl about his third day in town? Anyway. Maybe I've had a day or so to breathe full before he tells me to roll him a bed again, if he's going to. During the next three days, Drew made a new discovery, just as he had fallen into an easy working rhythm with ants back in the Army, so that on the occasion their thoughts and actions matched without the need for speech, now they combined operations in the corrals.

Drew's Bear. and painfully acquired competence with the rope was paired with the Texan's range training, while Anse's cruder and faster method of topping a wild one was smoothed by Drew's more patient, gentling process. Both of them were so absorbed by what they were doing that Tabaka and what might be going on there had no more immediate meaning than the words in the books Which had ridden to the stronghold in Drew's saddlebags. In the late afternoon of the third day, the Kentuckian was walking a long-legged bay on a lead when Leon climbed to the top pole of the corral. The Patron he comes, he announced. Drew faced about, two riders escorted, at hardly more than a fast walk, a buckboard, in which were two other men.

Drew caught a glimpse of a white bandage under the brim of the passenger's hat, and knew that Johnny Shannon was coming home. Anse. Drew raised a hand, suddenly knowing that his fingers were moving in the old scout signal of trouble ahead. The Texan came across the corral. Drew's bay stored it, took a dance step or two to the right, as if it had picked up sudden tension from the men. What's up? Anse pushed back his hat, turned up a corner of his neckerchief, and swabbed the lower half of his sweating face. Rennie's back. Drew watchfully on, hurry to take the buckboard reins, watched Hunt Rennie give a hand to Johnny. Then he saw Shannon jerk away from that aid, walking stiffly toward Casa Grande, while Rennie stood for an instant.

Looking after the younger man before following him. Croker tossed his head so high, his limber ear bobbed in the murky air. He brayed mournfully. Anse glanced at the mule's long, melancholy face. That's the way you think it's gonna be, Croker? Well, maybe so, maybe so.

10 10 - Chapter 10 22:39

This waiting, and sat cross-legged on the bunk next to Drew's, his thumb spinning the rowel of one spur. I never did take kindly to waiting. Is he or ain't he gonna sign me on? Drew, lying flat, stared up at the muslin-covered ceiling, Which years of dust had turned to yellow-brown. You ought to be used to it by now, waiting, I mean. We had us plenty of it in the Army. Only that was sort of different, not kind of personal like this here. We was sitting round on our heels then, waiting for some general to make up his mind as to where he was going to throw some lead fast. This is waiting to know if we're going to be throwed out. I heard California, Drew began again. You've sure taken a shine to California lately, Anse commented.

Under his fingers, the Rowell whirred. At least you talk about it enough. He sounded irritated. Lookie here, Drew. If that's the way you really feel, why don't you go? I'm saying you don't feel that way, not by a long sight. What if Drew answered with the exact truth? That he did not know how he felt. Nye came in, trailed by three other Rennie riders. Johnny's got himself a horse-sized headache, and maybe so a pair of burnt ears. The old man must have lit into him hot and heavy. Chewed him out good, I'd say. They weren't even talking by the time they pulled up here. Seems like the kid got an idea to scout north. Druck traces near the long canyon. Rode the sign on his own, and was bushwhacked.

Guess whoever did it, thought Johnny was wolf meat, just took his horse and left him there. You gotta give the kid credit for having it in him. He kept on going after he came to some, walked to that patrol picked him up. I'd say he sure had him a run of pure solid luck. There wasn't much pawn and bellering left in him when Mueller's boys brought him to town. Been getting a little bit back, though, seems like. But maybe this here will learn him a little horse sense. It was Kitchell's men who shot him? Leon wanted to know. Could be. Weren't no Apaches, that's for certain. No Indian. Would have just shot him down, and not made sure he was crow bait. Sure a full thing to do, riding there alone. Anyway, the old man will stick him in bed here.

And I'll bet you Johnny ain't gonna ride out anywhere without an eye on him, not for a good long while. Long Canyon, pierced Donnelly, one of the other Anglo riders, paused and shuck in his shirt to look inquiringly over his shoulder. That sure is off the trail the kid was supposed to be following. How come he ever drifted that far north from the Wells' Round, anyway? You ask him, Nye sat down on a bunk. Flipped his hat away and lay back. Sure feels good just to stretch out a mite, he observed. The old man, he was moving like he weren't on speaking terms with the law, and there was a sheriff behind every rock. Usually he's calm as a horse troth on a mild day. Johnny's getting his hair cut with a slug.

Sure shook Rennie up some, almost as much as it shook Johnny. As for the kid riding north, well, I'd say... That was some more of his trying to make a real big brag. Maybe he thought he could run down Kitchell all by himself, which is just about as straight thinking as kicking a loaded polecat on the tail end. But Johnny's always been like that. Do it now, think about it later. Got him in the more scraps, and I can count on both hands. Hope the old man gives it to him this time. Hot and heavy, both barrels plumb center. "'Si, it is true. That Juanito looks for trouble.' Chino Herrera rolled a corn-shuck cigarette with precise, delicate twists of his fingers. "'He is El Chivato, the young billy-goat, that one, ready to take on El Toro himself and lock horns.

Such a one learns from Knox, not from warning words. But he is yet a boy. Give him time.' "'He'd better give himself some time,' Nye announced. Next time, it may be the head, not long-sighted, that gets his lead. See you got back in one piece, you two fighting wildcats, Nye said, grinning at Drew and Entz. Nothing like trying to take on the army two to one, with the army having the advantage. That eye fading good, Drew. Only two colors now, ain't it? Drew grunted, and Nye laughed. Bet the captain is as tetchy as a teased snake. Every time he thinks about you two. Wanted to have you all corralled nice and neat out to the camp, where he could use his hooks and make at least three ride mounts out of you.

I'd walk soft near him for a while, or you'll have about as much a chance as hens ambling into a coyote pow-wow. Don't look like they was so tough that they had to sneak up on the dipper to take a drink, do they now? Donnelly asked, of the room at large. "'Don't never judge no horse by his coat and currying,' Anse retorted. "'I don't, son. I never do,' Nye replied. "'And as far as I'm concerned, you're both so wild they'd have to tie a foot up when they give you a haircut. Only that sort of rep don't go down good with the old man.' "'We figured it might not,' Drew agreed. Nye's warning was only another confirmation of Drew's fears. Topham, Nye, all the rest—' Had made it only too plain. No trouble on the range, and no troublemakers.

He gathered up clean under riggings another shirt. If Franny did order him up to the big house for firing, Drew was not going to meet him, stinking of horse and sweat. In the stream, back of the water corral, there was a bathing place, and chilly as it was, Drew intended to take advantage of it. A mite cold, ain't it? Anse demanded from the bank. As Drew splashed vigorously to offset the chill, but the Texan was shucking boots and clothing in turn. There were a lot of shadows this close to twilight. Lamps twinkled in the stronghold. A horse nickered from the corrals. Was answered from the barn. Then a bray, croaker sounding off. From the hills came the far-off yip-yip-yip of a coyote. Hey, Ann stood up knee-high in the water.

What's the matter? Drew called. Thought I saw something moving over there. Drew took a scrambling leap out of the water to their tangle of clothing, his hand reaching for one of the colts in the belt he had left carefully on top of the pile. All those stories of Apaches weaseling in, touching distance of the guard at the stronghold. Why only last year. The younger Rivas boy... Had had his throat slit out in the hayfield within sight of his home. The Kentuckian crouched alert, ants beside him now, both listening for any suspicious sound. At last they huddled into their clothes, hurried back to the bunkhouse. Bartolome was there waiting for them. "'Hugh Tejanos. There was no pretense of friendliness in his hail.

The patron will see you pronto.' They went. Tugging their clothing into order as they paused outside the door. Drew rapped, took the sound from within as an invitation, and pushed aside the heavy oak planks. Outwardly the room was unchanged. No one had moved those old Spanish chests, the skin rugs, the table, since his last visit there. But he had the feeling that it was chill now, cold, as if a hearth fire had been allowed to die into ashes. Perhaps that thought crossed his mind, because Hunt Rennie stood by the fireplace, moving the toe of his boot back and forth across a smear of grey powder. His back greeted them unwelcomingly, and the silence lengthened uncomfortably, until Drew did, as he always had, and met the unpleasant head-on.

You wanted us, sir? It was like being back in the Army. Even his arm twitched. As if some muscle was activated by memory to make one of those informal military salutes the scouts favored. Hunt Rennie did turn now. His eyes leveled on them. In the light of the candles his cheeks looked even more hollow tonight, and he moved stiffly as a man might, who was not only bone-tired in body, thought Drew, but weary in mind as well. "'You are Anson Kirby,' he addressed the Texan first. Yes, sir, and Stu, must be caught up in the same web of memory. That was his old report to the commanding officer voice. I understand you two thought it necessary to take on some troopers in the Jacks. What was the proper reply to that, Drew wondered.

Probably it was best to follow the old army rule of keeping the mouth shut. Never volunteer no explanations. If Aunt Rennie... Had had the story from Toppin or Nye, he already knew how the fight began. I won't have troublemakers on the range, now the voice, too, was tired. The youthfulness which had impressed Drew on their initial meeting had drained from this man tonight. He was taut as if pulled harp-string tight inside. Drew knew that feeling also. But what battle had Rennie emerged from? Some struggle with Shannon or Bayliss? Then the words made sense, penetrating his concern for the man who had said them. Well, this dismissal only matched his gloomiest expectations. Can't any of you young fools get it through your thick heads that the war's over?

Saloon brawling with the Army ain't gonna change that. It'll only get you into the worst difficulties around here. A spark of protest awoke inside Drew. Rennie was reading this all wrong. He and Ants certainly hadn't been trying to wipe away the bitter taste of Gainesville by jumping some bluecoats in a cantina hundreds of miles and more than a year away from where they had been forced to admit, at last, that bulletless carbines and bare feet could not keep on shooting and marching. Must have been mistaken about you, Kirby. Now Rennie looked at Drew. The Kentuckian met those dark eyes squarely. His first unvoiced protest stiffening into defiance. But he faced the older man steadily. Ants, watching them both, drew a small, fast breath.

Good thing for Drew there were no other witnesses now. The likeness between the two Rennies was unmistakable at this moment. Hunt Rennie did not follow up his half-accusation. He appeared to be expecting some reply. What? A childish promise? To be a good boy, not to do it again. Drew's half-unconscious concern for this man burned away speedily, ignited by what he deemed injustice. Anse broke the too-long silence. "'I don't know what you heard about that there fight, sir,' he drawed. "'Can't see. As how we could have done no different, nohow. But that's no call to saddle it all on Drew. Me. I had a hand. Two fists in it, too.' And if that's what's the matter, I can pull out." No. Drew's hand came up, in the old gesture, to stop the line of march.

We'll both ride, Mr. Rennie. We don't aim to argue the matter any. Only there's one thing. I brought Shadow and the filly down with the wagon train. The foal's too young to trail on now. They're blooded stock. I've papers for them. I'll sell. He loathed saying every word of that. It was not only the thought of giving up Shadow and the foal, though he knew that would cut with a deeper hurt every day. It was having to ask any kind of favor from this man. Not that such a sale was a favor. Rennie ought to be glad to get such blood for the range. "'You ain't goin' to do that,' Anse was stung into angry protest. But Drew was unaware of the Texan's outburst, his entire attention for Hunt Rennie. The tall man came over to the table, moved one of the candelabra forward as if to throw more light on Drew.

That's your choice of solutions, boy, to run? Drew flushed. The unfairness of that jab pushed him off balance. What did this man want of him, anyway? Rennie had said it plain that he did not want Drew and Ants on the range. Running never settled anything. Rennie's fingers... "'Tracced the spread of the Candle Opera's arms. "'Neither does Jumping to conclusions. "'Has anyone said you were through here, "'unless by your own choice?' "'Drew was jarred into an answer. "'You said?' "'Rennie sighed. "'Do any of you young fire-eaters ever listen "'to more than one-tenth of what any of your elders say? "'I am saying and making it plain. "'If you make a steady practice of trading punchers with troopers—' Or with anyone else, because you take a dislike to his face, or the way his ears stick out, or how he walks or talks, or what color coat he wore the war, then you can roll your beds and ride out, the sooner the better.

Reese Topham tells me that he explained the local situation to you, and you appeared to understand it then. Any difficulty with the Army could have serious consequences, not just for you. But for the range as well. This time you were not the aggressors. But after being forewarned, if it happens again, I'll be hard to convince that you were in the right. The war's over. Keep on remembering that. This is a new country, where it doesn't or shouldn't matter whether a man wore a blue coat or marched under the stars and bars. You're far too young to let the past cut off the future. Wars can finish a whole way of life for a man. His eyes no longer held Drew's. He was looking beyond toward the half-open door, or perhaps at something that he alone could see.

You have to learn to throw away broken things, not cherish them. Never look back. That dry, tired voice took on a fierce intensity. Then he was back with them again. Two Kirbys riding for the same spread. "'Is going to be rather confusing. You are Drew, and you are Anson. Anson,' he repeated the name. "'What part of Texas are you from?' Pa had him a-spread, down near the San Saba, for the Comanches came. He was Anson, too, in the Rangers for a while Pa was. Tall man, with a lot of freckles and red hair, best rider in Migs' company. It was half-question. Half assertion. You knew Pa? Ange shouldered past Drew. That was Pa right enough. He rode with Lieutenant Miggs in the Mex war. Aunt Rennie was smiling.

Once more years spun away from him. I ought to know him, son. He towed at me across his saddle for a mighty long, five miles on a blistering hot day. I haven't as much to say about the matter as a sack of corn. And being three times as heavy in spite of a starvation diet. Yes, I'll remember Anson Kirby. He and his squad were the first Americans I ran into after I broke out of a filthy prison. Funny, though, he glanced at Drew. I don't remember his mentioning a brother. You are his nephew? Anson was quick to the rescue. Pa, he and Drew's pa, they weren't too close. Drew's Pa was town folks. He sent Drew to Kentucky for schoolin'. Pa, he favored the range, and the free land west. Renny nodded. Well, Anson, if you're as good a rider as your father, we can use you here.

Horse knowledge seems to run in your family. Now, shortly, we are expecting a Colonel, Luis Oliveri, who's to buy horses for the Juarez forces. He may need some assistance. "'In driving them as far as the border. If he does, both of you will go.' "'Yes, sir.' Drew's agreement was drowned out by a harsh cry from overhead. Rennie went into action so swiftly that for a startled moment Drew was left gaping at an empty space. Don Cazar had caught up one of the rifles from under a window and had crossed the doorway to look back at the roof. of the Casa Grande, calling out an inquiry in another language. Apaches don't attack at night. Drew was heading for the door in turn. Outlaws do when it pays, Ants shot out grimly.

But on a second hail from the rooftop sentry post, Rennie swung the rifle over his arm and faced the outer gate of the patio. Unbar, Francisco, he called in Spanish. One leaf of the massive door folded back to allow in a small party of horsemen. One saddled but riderless mount galloped along with the rest. Another man held to the high horn with both hands and weaved back and forth, while a Conrad, riding beside him, strove to keep him from toppling to the ground. Drew had an impression of bright, almost gaudy uniforms. The men of the stronghold poured out To take the horses, helping down more than one blood-stained soldier. Their leader, a slender man, with dusty gold lace banding his high collar, came directly to Rennie.

Don Cazar, his Spanish was a flood in which Drew was lost almost immediately, but Anse listened with parted lips, and then translated a quick account. This here's the Colonel. He and his men were bushwhacked. Got away, cause they met the wagon train. Going south, and whoever was eating their dust, hunting them, didn't seem to like the odds. Not Apaches, probably Banditos. Kitchell? Drew asked. My guess is they ain't sure. Got hit quick, and had the stampede to save their skins. Oliveira's men were taken in, and Drew saw Rennie himself going from one of the wounded to another. Applying bandages, and once probing skillfully for a bullet. Drew commented on that, and Nye answered, "'Old man knows what he's doing.

He ain't no real doc, of course. But was I toting me a hunk of lead in some serious part? I'd rather have him digging for it than a lot of docs I've seen out here. Heard tell, as how he once was planning to be a real doc himself.' He sure can take care of a fellow good. What I'd like to know is how them bushwhackers knew just where to lay down and wait for Oliveri. What do you mean? This here Colonel, he was coming to buy horses, so he was carrying money or something else that could pass for money. We all knowed he was coming, but we didn't know when or what road, and he wasn't telling that his side of the border neither. Only some Jasper Had such a good idea as to that what and where, he and some amigos was squatting back of rocks, just waiting for the Colonel to ride into their little pocket of fire.

Mexicans could have trailed them up, cut ahead, and waited. Sure, only this operation was too slick for most banditos. They don't go in for time to plan things. They just cut loose when they see a chance. This was different. Only Fenner and some of the train guards riding in spoiled their game. Kitchell, then? Sounds more like. Don't think Kitchell's some common, ridge-riding bad man. He'd have never lasted this long, was that so. Not with the old man in the army, and what law there is in the territory all gunning for him. Plans things, Kitchell does, and so far his planning has always paid off. There's something else. True now, too. Was Kitchell planning to make a break south? He'd want him a good big stake to cover him on cold nights and winter days.

I just wonder if this here ain't the first of a lot of fancy raidin' jobs. Could be he'll hit fast and hard, gather up all the sweepings, and light out. Could just be. Don't promise us much shading time, does it, Anse remarked. Sounds like everybody's going to have to set up a string. And ride horses in rotation. That is, always supposing your supposing is right. Yeah, always supposing that, and I agreed.

11 11 - Chapter 11 21:49

Magnifico. Drew glanced over Shiloh's back at the speaker. Colonel Oliveri paused in the doorway of the stable to study the stallion with almost exuberant admiration, mirrored on his dark and mobile features. Don Cazar, the Mexican officer, Raised the gloved hand in a beckoning gesture. "'Por favor, Excellency. This one, he is of the blood.' Hunt Rennie joined Oliveri. "'You are right. He is indeed of the blood,' he assented. "'It is past all hope, then, to offer for him?' Oliveri was smiling, but his eyes held a greedy glint. Drew had seen before. Shiloh was apt to produce that reaction in any horseman. "'He is not mine to sell, Colonel. He belongs to Senor Kirby, who stands there with him.' So?

Oliveri's open astonishment irritated Drew. Maybe he did have on rough-work clothes and looked the part of a range drifter. But then, when the Colonel had arrived here last night, he had not been too neat either. "'A fine horse, Senor.' Oliveri came on in, now including Drew in his gaze. "'I think so, Colonel,' Drew returned shortly. He gave a last brush to Flank and smoothed the saddle blanket. "'From a distance you have brought him, senor.' Oliveri walked about the stud as Drew went to fetch his saddle. "'From Kentucky,' was he unduly suspicious, or was there a challenge in the Mexican officer's voice, a faint suggestion that the antecedents of both horse and owner were in question?" Kentucky, Oliver stumbled in his repetition of the word.

I have heard of Kentucky horses. Most people have. Drew tightened the cinch. Then his pride in Shiloh banished some of his stiffness. He is of the line of Eclipse. Maybe that would not mean much to a Mexican, though. The breeding of Eastern American horses probably did not register south of the border. Senor such a one? He is not for sale?" No. Drew knew that sounded curt, but Oliveri ruffled him. He added, One does not sell a friend. Oliveri gave what sounded to Drew like an exaggerated sigh. Senor, you have spoiled my day. How can one look at lesser animals when one has seen such a treasure? Don Cazar, the range harbors so many treasures, Oro, and now this one. "'How is he named, senor?' "'Shiloh.' "'Shiloh?' the colonel made a slybent hiss of the word.

"'An indio name?' "'No, a battle,' Drew prepared to lead out. "'In the war.' "'So, and this one is a fighter, too, I think, senor?' "'Should you ever wish to sell, por favor, remember one Luis Olivieri. For such a horse as this, see, a man might give a fortune. Ought to ride in the camp.' Before that puffed-up gamecock of Merinda on such a horse. Oliveri closed his eyes, as if better to imagine the triumph. "'Shiloh's not for sale, Colonel,' Drew replied. Oliveri shrugged. "'Perhaps now, no. But times changes, and chance changes. Senor, remember Luis Olivera will give a fortune. And this is the truth, senor.' "'Hunt.' Drew was forced to halt. As Johnny Shannon stood straight ahead of him in the stable entrance, Theodore Triffin's come in with some news you ought to hear.

So, while I'm coming, Colonel, Johnny can show you the stock we have ready. I will be back as soon as I can. Still, I say, Olivera shook his head as Rennie pushed past Drew and Shiloh and went out, that after seeing this one, all others will be as pale shadows of nothingness. But since I must have horses, Senor Shannon, I will look at horses. Buenos dias, Senor. He raised a hand to Drew, and the Kentuckian nodded. But Shannon still stood in the doorway, and short of walking straight into him, there was no way for Drew to leave. Johnny was smiling a little, just as he had back in Tabaka in Topham's office before the race. Seems like he got you a four-legged gold mine there, Kirby, he said. Better keep your eyes peeled.

Gold claims have been jumped before in this country. Kitchell would give a lot to get a horse like that. To run south. He'd have to, Drew said grimly. In lead, if he wanted it that way. Kinda sure of that, ain't you? The smile had not cracked, nor had it reached those shuttered blue eyes. Why did everyone say Johnny Shannon was a boy? Inside he was older. Then most of the men Drew had known, as old and as cold as the desert rocks in night-time. Again the Kentuckian was teased by a scrap of memory, once before he had seen old eyes in a boy's face, when it had meant deadly danger for him. When a man has something as belongs to him, he doesn't step aside easy if another makes a play to grab it, he said.

For the first time, then, He did see a flicker in Shannon's eyes, and his hand tightened on the reins that some fraction of his reaction must have reached Shiloh. The horse neighed, pawed with a forefoot. Just what I've always thought, too, Kirby. Shannon's voice was softer, more drawing than ever, and there was menace in it, but why? What did Shannon have against him? This was more now than the fact... That they had both bristled, incompatible, at their first meeting. It was more than just instinct of dislike. No, Johnny and Shannon was not a reckless boy. Drew Kirby knew that, if no one else on the range did. Colonel, Shannon stepped aside from the door. We may not be able to get you something as fine as this here prancer, but we ain't altogether lacking in mighty good horses.

Come along and look em over. Drew rode off, out of the patio gate, giving Shiloh his daily workout, trying to guess what Johnny Shannon had against him. Had he been right in his fear that Johnny had not been unconscious back in Tabaka, that he had caught Anse's greeting? Rennie was not too common a name, but he did not see how Johnny could possibly have hit upon the truth. What if he had, though, to Johnny, Drew could loom as a threat? He might be baffled as to why the Kentuckian had not made a move to claim kinship with Hunt. How much of Rennie's own past history was known to the people here? His escape from prison during the Mexican War was common knowledge, but come to think of it, no one had mentioned his youthful marriage or the fact that he was a widower.

Perhaps even Johnny had never heard that story, close to Hunt as he was. But Drew dared ask no questions. He was still puzzling over the situation when he returned an hour later. Nye, Anse, and a couple of the other riders had some of them recently broken mounts out, showing them off to Olivari. There was shouting, noise, and confusion around the corrals, and Drew slipped past without pausing. He had finished with Shiloh, and was on his way to the bunkhouse. When Hunt Rennie hailed him. Drew, an imperative wave of the hand, brought him to join Don Cazar and to discover Anse already there, rolling his bed. For a second or two, Drew blinked. The occupation fitted in too well with their worries of the night before, but Hunt Rennie was already explaining.

Teodoro tells me that they found traces of shod horses Being driven back in the canyons. This late grass is beginning to brown, but there are still some sections where stock can be wintered. I want to know more about this, since both of you are newcomers. Rennie paused and then added, your writing away from here might appear to others that you had quit or joining up with the Mustangers on your own. To hunt horses, Drew asked. Not wild ones. Sounds like trouble. Ants tied his bedroll. In this country we expect trouble from any direction, including up and down. Rennie returned. But I find it disturbing that broken stock is being herded back there. Such maneuvers can mean only one thing. Stolen animals are being gathered for a run to the border, and some of them could be Army-owned.

A remount corral was raided just before I left town. I would not care just now. To have any army mounts located on this range, no matter where they were hidden or by whom. If they are there, I want to be the one to find them and return them to the proper owners. It would please certain parties to find stolen stock hereabouts, particularly army. Now he gave an order he obviously expected to be obeyed. If you do find anything, don't try to take over yourselves. That's final. There's nothing to rush into, just to burn powder. Above all, I want no mixing it up with an Army Patrol riding south. Do you both understand?" Drew nodded. Yes, sir, Anse replied promptly. We just get high behind and take care.

What the Mustangers got to do with this? Nothing, except they can show you the tracks, and with them... You can cover a good part of the country in question. There's been no Apache sign down there. Running Fox will accompany you. Only not so openly as to be noticed. You think someone may be watching? The stronghold, Drew asked, as he buckled his saddlebags. I don't know anything for sure, but a couple of incidents lately have suggested that someone knows a lot more about what's going on here than I'd like. It would be easy enough. To lie out in the hills and keep field-glasses on us down here. And when a man is familiar with the general routine of a place, he can guess a sight too much and too close just by watching the comings and goings.

So you're going to ride out within the hour, and be well along before you camp tonight. We can't waste time. The nights were chill, and the cold made them huddle turtle-fashion. Winter breathed across the land now, with the coming of dark. They traveled at an angle, the pace set by Teodoro, who led a pack mule. Somewhere out there in the dark, the Pima scout was prowling. But he had had his orders. No contact with the three travelers, unless there was fear of attack. And both Anse and Drew were alert, knowing that the farther one went from the stronghold, the less one relaxed guard. Kind of nippy, ain't it? Anse said. In the very dim light, Drew could just make out that the Texan was holding his gloved hand to his mouth, puffing at the crooked fingers.

Ain't as bad as riding out of norther, though. I mind me how just before the war... I was writing for wages for Old Man Shaw then. We had a northern hit. I'm telling you, it was so cold that Ramrod came out to give the morning orders, and his words, they just naturally froze up solid. Us boys, we had to get the wood axe and chop them apart before we knew what we was all to do. Now that's what I call being cold." Drew laughed. Don't think it ever gets quite that cold hereabouts. It was good being away from the stronghold, out here with Ants. It was as if he had been let out of lessons, or freed from a sense of duty and responsibility which was a growing burden. Nope. Texas is sure a lot of country, a whole bag with odds and ends stuffed in every which way.

Course, this is new range to me, but what I've seen of it, were you just able to run off the banditos? And get the Apaches offin' it. For good. Why, it might be a right respectable sort of territory. A man could carve himself out a spread, as he could brag on. You like it? Anse blew on his fingers again. Maybe, all things bein' considered, as they say. I heard tell, as all a man needs to start his own brand is a loose rope, a running iron, and the guts to use em. It's been done. And it's being done all the time. Only I don't think how the old man would take to having such a big idea neighbor here. Not much cattle, though, to interest a wide-loop man. Now horses. Everyone says how they's plenty of wild stuff.

You've got Shiloh, Drew, and you said you made a foal deal with the old man. Get some more good-looking and acting wild ones, and you're in business. Run in your Spur-R brand. Three, four years, and the luck a man has always got to hope for, and you've more than just a stake. You've got roots and a spread." "'We have,' Drew corrected. "'Why'd you suppose I wanted that foal deal? There's free land to be had in this valley. Some of the ranchers cleared out when the Apaches started raiding, and they're not coming back. We might look over what Tiffin has picked up, as long as we are out here.'" I know the old man hasn't contracted for anything but getting rid of that pinto stud. We could make an offer for any good slicks, put the spur-R on them, and run them on the range.

Ranny has already said that's all right with him. Whoa," Ant smuffed, one of the old-spirited war yells, in a husky whisper. You and me were going to do it. Ain't nobody can put hobbles on a pair of Tijanos. As has their chewing teeth fast on the bit. It was something to think about, all right, but future chances should not take a man's mind off the job immediately ahead. Only tonight, out here, Drew had a feeling of being able to do anything, from touching the sky with his uplifted hand to fighting Kitchell man to man. That, however, was just what Hunt Rennie did not want, and what Drew had promised not to do. Horses to be found back in the rough country, hidden away in the maze of pocket canyons where there was water and enough browning grass to keep them from straying.

There must be hundreds of places ready to be used that way. But how come Kitchell could hide out in Apache country? Nothing Drew knew of that tribe, fitted in with the idea of a white outlaw band, sharing their hunting ground unmolested. It had never mattered to an Apache Whether a man rode on the north or south side of the law, if his skin was white, that automatically made him pray. Drew said so now. Teodoro answered that, "'Apaches want guns, senor. Their arrows are deadly, but guns are always better.' I think," Anse cut in, that any guns Kitchell'd have, he'd be hanging on to, needing them his own self. Can't be easy for him to get them, neither. Not here, no, Teodoro agreed, but South, that is different.

There is big trouble in Mexico. This French emperor fights Juarez, so there is much confusion. In wartime, guns can be lost. A party of soldiers are cut off, as was Colonel Olivares almost. Men can be killed. But a gun? It is not buried with a man. A gun is still useful, worth money, if he who picks it up... From beside the dead does not want it for himself. So such a bandito as this Kitchell, he could take horses, good trained horses, maybe from the army, and he would run them south. He would sell them for money, see? Probably much money. But also he could trade for guns. Two, three, five guns at a time. Not as good as those his own men carry, old ones maybe, but good enough for Apaches. He would then bring these north, give them his payment for being left alone.

Why wouldn't the Apaches just kill him and his men and grab what they have? Drew pointed out what seemed to him the obvious flaw in the system. Apaches, they are not stupid, guns they could take, but once such a gun is broken, where can they get another? They could not walk into Dabaka or Tucson and buy what they need. Kitchell's men do, perhaps. It is thought that they do so. Also, when he trades at the border, it is with men who would meet the Apaches with fire and bullets. Apache war-parties are never large. Perhaps, in all this part of the country, there are not more than half a hundred warriors, and those scattered in small bands. I do not say this is truth, Senor Kirby. I only say that it would explain many things.

Such is why Kitchell has not been caught. "'Make sense,' Anse commented. Always did hear how Apaches were meaner than snakes, but they wasn't stupid. Keep a tame gunrunner to work for them. That sounds like the tricky sort of play they'd cotton to. If it is so, the man who gets Kitchell may just rid this country of some of them two-legged wolves in the bargain.' According to what I've heard, Drew said, this Kitchell Claims to lead a regular Confederate force that hasn't surrendered. If he wants to make that valid, he wouldn't dare any such deal. I'll bet you, without waiting to see a whole card, Anse replied, that if that coyote was ever ridin' on our side, which I don't stretch ear to, he cut loose them traces long ago.

There were them buzzards we had us a couple of run-ins with back in Tennessee. Remember? Scum. Some of them wearing blue coats, some gray. But they was all just murdering outlaws. What did they whine when they was caught? Did the Yankees run them in? Then they was unlucky rebel scouts. And when our boys licked up a nest of the varmints, why'd we take us up a mess of respectful Yank irregulars, according to their story? Of course, none of their protests kept them from stretch necks. His hand went to his own. Ought to know. Seemed as how I was picked up with a parcel of them, and was close enough to feel the wind when a noose swung by. This here Kitchell, I'm taking Bible Oath, he's the same mangy breed.

Maybe so he started out to be Reb, but that was a long time ago, and he crossed over the river long since. And some of them beauties back east, they'd lapped muddy water out of an Apache's boot track. "'Didn't mean saving their dirty hides?' "'Sounds to me, Teodoro. Like you've some plain, straightforward thinking there. A mighty interesting idea. And maybe we're just going to attend to the proving of it.' "'Not by ourselves,' Drew corrected. We have our orders.' "'Sure. But there ain't no orders ever given. What says a man has to stand up and be shot at, and he don't shoot back. No ain't sniffing up Trouble's hot trail.' Like a bush hound. But neither am I going to sit down and fold my two hands together when trouble hits, as it's like to do out here.

Drew agreed with that, though he did not say so. Rennie must know the circumstances. They would have to defend themselves if it came to a fight. But he could hope that, if Kitchell had stocked some hidden canyons with stolen horses, the outlaw leader had left no guards. On duty thereabouts. With Running Fox prowling ahead, and with him and Anse using all the scout tricks they had learned in wartime, they should be able to learn just how correct Teodoro's suspicions were.

12 12 - Chapter 12 24:18

Si, senors, the land lies so. Hilario Trifan's crooked body pulled together in a lopsided perch as he squatted range fashion beside the morning camp-fire. He had smoothed the space of ground, the width of his two hands, and was setting out twigs and stones to create a miniature relief map of the countryside. Here is the waterhole to which the pinto comes. Above that we were, moving in from the side. To do so we crossed here, a black-rimmed nail stabbed into the dust. It is then we see the tracks. Five ahead, all shod horses, but not ridden save for one. Apaches could have been running them, Drew commented. No, Triffin shook his head. This far from pursuit, the Apaches would not have moved so.

The Indio, he eats horse-flesh. They would have been signs of a fire. Were one of the animals cut down. These horses were being moved with care, not pushed too hard. We trailed them onto here. Hilario stabbed his finger into the dust again. Then, Teodoro, now tell them what you saw. The younger mustanger hung over the crude map. I climbed, senores, up over the rocks. It is bad. The ground high steep, but with care one can reach a ledge, and along that one can look down into the next canyon. A good place for horses. There is water and grass. I stayed there watching with the glasses Don Cazar gave my father, the glasses which brings the far close. There were poles set up in the rocks through which they brought those horses, making it like a pen we built for wild ones.

But those in it were not wild. How many and what brands? Anse wanted to know. Teodoro shrugged. There are many trees, rocks. One cannot see everywhere. I counted twenty head. There is room for more. As the brands, even the glasses could not make those plain to the eyes. of one lying above. But there is no other ranchero who would run horses on the range, and Don Cazar's manatas are not driven in here. Does he want the wild ones to run off his mares? Horses would be kept so for only one reason, that they must be hidden, and in such a place as we found they could be left for maybe a month or more, and Don Cazar's riders Do not patrol this far from the stronghold. Had it not been for that pinto that causes so much trouble, even we would not be here.

What about the pinto? If he's all you say, wouldn't he try to get at this band? asked Drew. No reason if they are saddle stock. No mares among them, Anse said thoughtfully. But with those hombres who put them there, just leave. No guards or nothing. "'This is what we do not know,' Hilario replied. "'We took every precaution against being seen when Teodoro climbed to look into the canyon. And this, I believe. We were not suspected if there were any watchers. Otherwise, otherwise, senores, we would not have been alive to greet you when you rode in last night. This Kitchell, he is like an Apache here. There, everywhere. Today I'm easier.' "'Because you have brought the Pima. Because we have two more guns in this camp.' "'And why didn't you pull out yourselves, Anse?' asked curiously.

"'Because we were watched. That would have made our discovery, as plain, as if we stood out in the open and shouted it to the winds. For three days before we found that trail, we had been building a pen for the wild ones, casting about for the tracks and runs of the Pintos Band.' Having done so, we would not leave without completing our drive, and should those out there suspect, Trifan shook his head, we would not have lived to reach the stronghold, and that is the truth. This is also truth, Padre. Fajita came to the fire and picked up the coffee-pot, pouring the thick black liquid into the waiting line of tin cups. It is time for us to finish and be on the move. Not just to talk about what must be done.

Drew looked up in surprise. The girl was wearing breeches, ready to ride. In addition, instead of the gun belts, which all the men wore as a matter of course, Fikita had tucked a pair of Derringers into the front of her sash belt. Their small grips showed above the faded silk folds. "'She's going with us?' the Kentuckian asked. "'Has the girl kicked dust over the campfire?' and stowed the empty pot in the cart. Ain't that dangerous for her? Hilario got to his feet with a lurch that made his crippled state only too plain. Senor, to hunt the wild ones is dangerous. You see me, twisted like a root, no? Not tall and straight as a man should be. This was done by the wild ones. In one small moment, when I was not quick enough.

Among us, the Mustangers, It is often the daughters who are the best riders. They are quick, eager, riding lighter than their brothers or their fathers. And to some, it is a loved life. With Vaquita, that is true. As for danger, is that not always with us? In war, danger is a thing which one man makes for another. In this country, the land itself fights man. War or no war. A cloudburst fills an arroyo. With a flood without warning, and a man is drowned amidst desert sand, where only hours before he could have died for lack of that same water. There's a fall of rocks, a fall of horse, a stampede of cattle, sickness which strikes at a lone traveler out of nowhere. Yet have you not ridden to war, and come now to live on this land?

See, we have danger, but a man can also die in his bed. in the midst of a village with strong walls, and to everyone his own way of life. Now we ride. They did, indeed, ride, following a trail which, as far as Drew could see, existed only in the minds of the Mustangers. But the three Mexicans swung along so confidently that he and Anse joined without question or argument. At a distance they circled the waiting pen with walls of entwined brush and Sapling, ready to funnel driven horses into a blind canyon. The Pinto's Band must be located. Somehow shaken out of the rocky territory, their wily leader favored. Before that drive could begin, water, Triffin said, would be the key. Horses must drink, and they were creatures of habit, never ranging far from some one hole they had made their own.

Triffin's blankets already flapped about the Pinto's chosen spring. They had seen the horses approach several times in the past two days and shy away from those flapping things with a fearsome man-scent. As long as La Bruja is with them, Vaquita said, coming up beside Drew, they will not come. La Bruja? The witch, as Anglos would say. We call her so because of her cunning. She is the wise one who keeps lookout. I say she is possessed by the evil one. It is possible the pinto is her son. Together they have always outwitted the hunters. But La Bruja is old. She runs more stiffly. Last time in the chase she began to drop behind. She is of no use, only a nuisance. It is the white one I wish to drop rope over.

The white one? Si! She is Nieva, the snow of the upper mountains. Among our people you will hear many tales of white ones without a dark spot on them, the ghost stallions that run the plains and no man may lay rope over. But this mare is the truth, and some day her eyes shone, and she seemed to be making some vow Drew would be called to bear witness to. Some day she will be mine, not to trail south and sail. No, but to keep always. She must be very beautiful, he commented. It is not only that, senor. You have a fine horse, one which beat Don Cazar's oro. Is that not so? Yes, Shiloh. And to you, that is one above all other horses. If you lost him, you would be, like, hungry inside you. Is that not also so?

Yes. Her earnestness triggered. That instant response from him. So it is with me, since I have seen Nieva. Men find such a horse. For years they follow the band, in which it runs to snare it. They will suffer broken bones, as did my father, and hunger and thirst, because there is one tossing head, one set of flying heels before them. Sometimes they are lucky, and they catch that one. If they do not, there is in them A pinch of winter, even when the desert sun is hot. Once I loved all horses, now there is this one which I must have. I hope you get her. Senor, last season I hoped, this season, this season. I have belief that my hopes will come true. Ah, look, the Indio. She pointed with quirk, and Drew glanced left.

He saw what appeared to be an outcrop of rock, among many others, move. Then rise on sturdy legs to meet them. Running Fox, a brown blanket twisted over one shoulder, the rest of him stripped down to breech clout and moccasins, padded up to Hilario Triven, and spoke in the guttural pima. The mustanger translated. The horses are still there, but there is a camp of two men on the north slope above the canyon. Both men are Anglos. They are armed with rifles, and take turns watching. "'Can we reach a place from where we can read the brands on the horses?' Drew asked. Triffin questioned the Pima. "'See, but you cannot go there by day. You must go in at dusk, wait out the night, and then see what you could in the early morning.

Leave before sun-up, otherwise the watchers may be able to locate you,' he says. Triffin smiled, that he could go in at high noon. And would not be seen. But for a white man, it is a different matter. Waste a whole day just waiting, Anse protested. Senor, when one balances time against death, then I would say time is the better choice, Hilario replied. But this day will not be wasted. If any watch us, as well as those horses, they will see us about our business, and will have no doubt that we hunt wild horses, not stolen ones. So Drew and Anse joined the Mustangers hunting. To Anse, this was something he had done before. Drew remembered that the Texan had been working with such just a hunting party when his family had been wiped out by the Comanches in 59.

But to Drew, it was a new experience, and he was deeply intrigued by what he saw and the reasons for such action. All they cited of the Pintos now, thoroughly thirsty band, was the stud himself. And a black mare, La Bruja, looking down from a vantage point high on a rocky rim. And the hunters did not try to reach them, knowing that all the wild ones would be long gone before they could reach that lookout. This is the fourth day Hilario Triffin sat as buckskin at the waterhole. Watch Teodoro make careful adjustments to the blankets tied on the bushes. They will be wild with thirst tomorrow. The blankets will be taken down. There will be no sign of man here. By mid-afternoon the mares will be ready to fight past the pinto for water.

He cannot hold them away. So they will come and drink too much. Perhaps he will come, too. If he does—Triffin snapped his fingers—I shall be waiting with a rifle. We take no more chances with that one. Anyway, the mares will be heavy and slow, with all the water in their bellies. They can be herded into our trap. Then he will come, see? That one will come. No one can take his mares from him. He will be mad with rage, too angry to be any longer so cunning. We shall have him, then, and there will be no more killing of studs here." At dusk, Running Fox slipped down to the camp. But not far enough into the circle of firelight to be sighted by any watcher in the night. Then with Drew and Anse he was off again.

Within less than a quarter hour, Drew could have laughed wryly at his past satisfaction in his prowess as a scout. Compared to this flitting shadow, he was a bush bull crashing through the brush. Anse was better, much better, but even he was far below the standard Set by the Pima. The trio climbed, crept, crouched for long moments, waiting for Drew, knew not what. Some sound, some scent, some sight in the night, which running Fox would accept as assurance of temporary safety. The Kentuckian had no idea of how long it took them to reach the perch in which they at last pushed. The breastwork of rock was before him. The half-circle of a shallow cave Cut off a portion of the star-pointed sky above.

Stay here. The two words were grunted at them out of the dark. Then nothing. Running Fox had vanished in a way which could make a man believe they had been escorted not by a living Pima, but by a ghost from that long-forgotten race which had left their houses scattered in canyon niches up and down this country. It was cold. Even though the half-cave shielded most of the wind, Drew unrolled the blanket he had carried tight about him, and he squeezed down beside Anse. Their combined body warmth ought to keep them fairly comfortable. Drew doubled his hands inside his coat, wriggling his gloved fingers to keep them from stiffening. Sure do wish there was some way a fellow could bring him a little invisible fire along on a trip like this, Anse commented.

Ain't gonna be what I'd name right out as a comfortable night. Never seems to be any easy way to do a hard thing, Drew assented. He hugged himself. His hands slipped back and forth about his waist. Under his two shirts, he had added the second before he left the stronghold. The band of his money belt made a lump, and now his hands ran along it. He had had no occasion to open any of those pockets. Since he had left Tewbacca the first time. Now, to take his mind off immediate discomfort, he tried to estimate by touch, alone, how many coins still remained in the two pockets. The middle section of the three divisions held his papers. There were those papers for the horses, the parole he had brought from Gainesville, the two letters he had not been able to bring himself to deliver to Hunt Rennie.

One was from Cousin Mary, And the other was a formal, close-to-legal statement drawn up by Uncle Forbes' attorney. Both were intended to prove the identity of one Drew Rennie beyond any reasonable doubt. Drew's fingers stilled above that pocket. It felt too thick, bunchy under his pinching. Whatever. He squirmed around, free of the blanket, and began to pull off his gloves. What's the matter? the Texan began to whisper. Just a minute. It was a clumsy business, pulling the belt free from under his layers of heavy clothing, but Drew got it across his knee, his chilled fingers picked at the fastening of the pocket. There was no packet of papers there, neither the sheets for the horse, nor that much-creased strip of the parole, nor the sealed envelope which had held both letters.

Instead, He plucked out what felt like shreds of grass and leaves, dry and crackling. "'What is it?' Ange leaned forward. "'My papers are gone.' Drew rummaged frantically, turning the pocket inside out. "'When? Who?' "'What papers, compadre?' Drew explained. "'You've been wearing that there belt constantly, ain't you?' "'Yes, except,' he suddenly tensed, "'that night by the swimming hole.'" When you thought you saw something in the bushes, remember?" I remember. Looky here. Who'd want them and why? Shannon. And in that moment Drew was as certain of that as if he had actually seen Johnny stripping them out of the belt. How'd he know you were carrying anything? He knew I had the belt. I left it with Topham when I raced Shiloh, and he saw me give it to him.

And, Anse, he must have heard you call me Rennie in the Jacks. If he did, he'd want to find out more. Rennie's not a common name, and Shannon's not stupid. He'd figure anything valuable I'd be carrying would be in this belt. How come you didn't know it was gone? I don't know. Just seemed as heavy, and that pocket didn't ride any different when I had it on. No reason to open it lately. So what's he got? Your horse papers? Your parole out of the Army? And them two letters. Yeah, he got just about all he needs to make one big war smoke for you. And I can't prove he has them, Drew said bleakly. Just by making him one little private fire, Ants went on, he could about put you out of business, compadre.

There's only one thing to do. Such as? Johnny Shannon has got to do some talking his own self, and we can't wait too long to invite him. To a chin-wagon party, neither. Anse was right. Shannon had only to slip that collection of papers into the nearest fire, and he would put an end to Drew Rennie. Of course, Drew could obtain duplicates of the letters and horse papers from Kentucky, but that might take months, and he did not know whether the parole could be reissued from Army records. Why, at this moment, he could not prove That he had served in the East with the Army of Tennessee. Let Bayless come down on him now, and he was defenseless.

We can't ride tonight, Ants added. But come first light, we give a look-see here, and then we move. Straight back to the stronghold in Shannon. Also, I'm saying this, cause I think it's good advice, true? Now's the time. You've got to go to the old man and tell him the truth. Quick as you can. Sure, I know why you didn't want to claim kin before, but now you'll have to. Drew shook his head. Not now. Not with nothing to back up my story. Shannon could give me the lie direct. I'm thinking you're showing less brains than a dumb cow-critter, amigo. But listen, I'm back in your play. Does Shannon cut up rough? He's got two of us, hitching a holster steady and getting ready to loose lead. No, I'm not gonna drag you in.

Yeah, and I mean yeah. We joined trails a long time, back by that there mill pond in Kentucky, and we ain't splitting now. If a storm's walking up on us slow, or coming fast with its tail up, it's gonna be both of us getting under or out together. Drew put on the belt again. His impatience bit at him. But what Ant said made sense. They had been sent here to do a job, and in the morning they would do it. Then they could ride back to the stronghold. How was he going to handle Shannon? He had no idea. But that he would have to, he was sure. The first light was a gray rim around the world, as they lay flat, training the glasses Hilario had loaned them on two horses grazing not too far below. Well, that's it.

U.S. As big and plain as the paint on a Comanche's face, and almost as ugly. Them's army mounts, and I don't see no troopers hereabouts, Sam said. Running Fox materialized in his ghostly fashion, and they retraced at a better speed and less effort the path which had brought them to the canyon perch. Just as they were about to top the ridge behind the mustanger camp, the Pima held up a warning hand. Long knives. Troopers. They went to their knees and made a stealthily crawl to the crest of the ridge. There were troopers down there all right. The Triffans sat on their saddles, while an officer walked up and down before them. Running Fox put a finger on Drew's arm and motioned to the left. The horses of the Mustangers were browsing in a small dell.

Their night hobbles unloosened. Together, the trio moved in that direction. The pima slipped ahead with a speed and efficiency of motion his companions envied. He had the two nearest horses in hand, leading them toward the bushes. Looks like we ride bareback. Ants caught at a hackamore, then mounted. Move! Drew waved running fox to the other horse. We can't wait to get another horse. You ride for the stronghold. Make it straight to Rennie. And report. I'm staying here. I can say we were fired, and Triffin took me on as a hand. Anse was the better rider under these circumstances, and the better scout. To wait to pick up a third horse was folly. What about Shannon? Shannon will have to wait. Drew slapped the Texan's horse.

It reared, and then pounded off. Drew turned to walk back to the camp. He rounded the edge of the ridge. and stopped short. The round and deadly mouth of an army colt was pointed straight at his middle, covering the disastrously empty pocket of his money belt.

13 13 - Chapter 13 20:57

A lantern provided a very small and smoky light on a table of three boards mounted on boxes. If the furniture was makeshift, the walls of the room were not. Logs in adobe were just as effective for purpose of confinement as stone blocks. Drew sat upon a bunk shell of board, holding straw, and rested his head between his hands. He could follow the action which had brought him here, trace it back almost minute by minute over the past three days. How he had come here was plain enough. Why was another matter. Lieutenant Spath, back in the Mustangers' camp, might have accepted the Kentuckian story, or he might at least have been uncertain enough not to arrest him. If only Trooper Stevens had not been one of the patrol.

Once before, Stevens had been most vocal about Rebs who were too free with their fists. Spath's trooper guard reported the escape of running fox and ants had condemned his captive fully as far as the lieutenant was concerned. The troopers had then searched their prisoner, and to them a loaded money belt worn by a drifter Did not make good sense, either, unless too much sense on the wrong side of the ledger. Drearily, Drew had to admit that had he stood in the lieutenant's boots, he would have made exactly the same decision and brought his prisoner back to the camp. So here he was now, just where Bayliss had promised to see him, in an army detention cell, with no proof of identity and the circumstantial evidence against him.

Piling up by the minute. All they needed was some definite proof to tie him to Kitchell, and he was lost. He had to pin his hopes on Ants and on Cazar.

Drew ground his boot heel into the dirt floor. That was just about what he had sworn he would never do. Coloban Hunt Rennie for help. Especially now, since the troopers had discovered those Army-branded horses back in the canyon. And Bayliss would try to use that against Rennie. Anse's escape had been a short-sighted solution, Drew knew. To the captain, such action only tied the range in deeper. The Kentuckian ran his fingers through his hair, trying to think of something which had not gone wrong. The plank door banged open, and Drew's head came up with a snap. No use letting these Yankees think they had him worried. The lantern. Feeble as it was, picked out the stripes on the blouse of the first man, the tin plate in the hands of the second.

Drew looked down at the plate as it was slid under the bars and across the floor of his cell. Stew, Sergeant, ain't that overfeedin'? Thought bread and water was more the Captain's style for Reb prisoners. Drew was pleased that he was able to sound unconcerned. "'Cocky one, ain't you?' asked the man who had brought in the plate. "'All you rebs is alike. Never know when you're licked.' "'Get along, Farley. That's enough,' Mueller broke in. Drew picked up the plate and forced himself to spoon up its contents. The stuff was still warm and not too bad. After the second spoonful, he discovered that he was hungry. That much he would not have to pretend. "'Kid?' "'Sergeant Mueller's bulk.' Shut most of the lantern glow out of the cell.

You young squirts all alike never take no advice, but I'm gonna give it anyway. When the Captain sees you, you button your lip. He ain't one as takes kindly to smart talkin', specially not from a prisoner. As far as he's concerned, he's got you about dead to rights, horse-sleevin' from the Army. I'd like to know what proof he has, Drew returned sharply. Your patrol picked me up well away from those horses, in the Mustangers' camp where I was working, and Captain Bayless can't prove that's not true, either. Anyway, what difference does it make to you, Sergeant?" Since you ask, I don't rightly know, kid. Maybe you was spoiling for a fight in the Jacks, and did push our boys. But you don't think so, Sergeant.

Drew put the plate on the bunk, and stood up to approach the bars. Mueller was the taller. The Kentuckian had to raise his eyes to meet the sergeant's. The trooper's face was mostly in the shadow, but it was plain the man did not mean him any ill. "'I've got my reasons, Mueller. Did not make any straight answer. But you think of what the captain does know about you, kid. You go ridin' round with gold on you. More money than any drifter ever sees in ten years or more.' "'You're caught near where some stolen Army stock is stashed away, and your partner lights out hell for leather, breaking through Army lines. And we only got your story as to who you really are. I ask you, does that read good in the lieutenant's report when the captain gets it?' "'No,' Drew answered.

"'But what do you suggest doing about it, Sergeant?' "'Got anybody in town as will speak up for you? Kirby? Reese Topham?' He did before. He doesn't know any more than what he said right then. Trouble is, Sergeant, anybody I could ask to back me up, I'd have to bring out from Kentucky, and I don't believe Captain Bayless would wait for that. You work for Rennie, don't you? Hunt Rennie has nothing to do with this. He didn't know those horses were on the range. Because you put them there, Kirby? Mueller made a lightning about-face. He snapped to attention, facing the captain. "'And what are you doing here, Sergeant?' "'Prisoner being fed, sir,' Mueller reported stolidly. "'And there is no need for conversation.

Dismiss, Sergeant.' The captain watched Mueller leave, before he turned once more to Drew. "'Kirby, do you know the penalty for horse-stealing in this country?' he snapped. "'Yes.' "'Then you must know just what you have to face.' "'Captain!' Drew began slowly, wanting to make his words just right. There was no reason to let Bayliss think he could simply ride right over his prisoner. On the other hand, Mueller's advice had been good. It would be dangerous to antagonize the officer. I had nothing to do with those stolen horses. We found them, yes, but they were already in the canyon, and there were two men guarding them, up on the ridge. They must have cleared out. When your patrol rode in. But they were there the night before.

You saw them? No, our scout did. What scout? That Indian who got away with your partner? I heard rumors that Kitchell had links with Bronco Apaches, but I didn't believe any white man could stoop so low. That Indian? Drew felt as if he were walking a very narrow mountain ledge in the dark, with a drop straight down. To the middle of the world on one side. Was a Pima, one of the stronghold scouts? So Hunt Rennie did know about those horses, Bayliss pounced. He did not. He sent us to the Mustanger camp with a message. And the Pima rode scout for us. It's a regular order on the range. Take one of the Pimas if you're going any distance from where you can fort up. You can find out that's true easily enough.

Drew was striving to keep a reasonable tone, to find an answer which must pierce through Bayliss's rancor. After all, Bayliss could not have held his present ranking station so long and been all hot-headed plunger. What was the so important message Rennie had to deliver to a camp of mech's mustangers? Bayliss bored in. Even in the lantern's restricted light, Drew could see the flush darkening the other's face. They were having trouble with a wild stud, a killer. Mr. Rennie wants them killed, quick. He sent two of us out to help. Thought with more hands it could be done. Kirby, Bayliss's fists were on his hips, his head pushed forward from his shoulders until his sun-peeled face was only inches away from the bars between them.

Do I look like a stupid man, a man to be fed stories? You ride into town on a blooded stud. With a mare of like breeding, and a belt loaded down with gold. You give out that you served with Forrest. Forrest, a looting gorilla and a murdering butcher. You've heard of Fort Pillow, Kirby. That's what decent men remember when anyone says Forrest in their hearing. Only you can't even prove you were one of that gang of raiders, either, can you? Now I'll tell you just who and what you are. You're one of Kishel's scavengers coming to town. "'With gold for supplies, and a chance to contact the people you want to meet. I've known for a long time that Toppin', Rennie, and probably a dozen or so so-called citizens of that miserable outlaw's roost are back in Kitchell.

Now here's a chance to prove it.' "'Not through me you don't,' Drew cut in. "'I'm just what I said. I was from the beginning. Captain, and you can't prove anything different.' "'I don't have to prove it.' You've convicted yourself, Kirby. You can't account for the gold you're carrying. And if you rode with Forrest, where's your parole? You know you were told to carry it. I can deal with you, just as any horse thief is dealt with. Why, I'll wager, you can't even prove ownership of those horses you brought with you. Where's your sales papers? On the other hand, Kirby, if you do give us the evidence we need against Kitchell and those who are helping him... The court might be moved to leniency. How old are you?

Nineteen-twenty? Rather young to hang. Captain, I can prove everything I've told you. In Kentucky I have kin. They can? Kentucky, Bayless snorted. Kentucky is far away, Kirby. Do you expect us to sit around waiting for some mythical kin of yours to appear, from Kentucky, with another set of lies to open this door? He pounded with one fist against a cell portal. "'I'm a reasonable man, Kirby, and I'm not asking too much, you know that.' "'What are Kitchell and Rennie, Toppin, to you, that you're willing to face a noose for them?' "'Kitchell I know nothing about, except what I've heard, and that's not good.' Drew sat down on the bunk, partly because the chill, which had crept down his back and poured into his legs, and they felt oddly weak under him.

"'Rece Topham and Mr. Ranney, as far as I'm concerned, they're honest men. I don't think, Captain, that you can prove I'm not, either.' "'There's such thing as overconfidence, Kirby, and it always comes to the fore in your kind,' Bayless returned. "'But after you do some serious thinking, I believe you'll see that this is the one time you're not going to be able to lie or ride yourself out.' He left without a backward glance. Drew picked up the plate. Pushed the spoon back and forth through the congealing mess left on it. He could not choke down another mouthful. Just how much power did Bayliss have? Could he try a civilian by court-martial and get away with it? And to whom could Drew possibly appeal?

Topham? Rennie? Apparently Bayliss wanted them enough to suggest Drew testify against them. Did he actually believe Drew guilty, or had that been a subtle invitation to perjury? The Kentuckian set the plate on the floor and got up again to make a minute study of the cell. His thought, now, was that maybe his only chance would be to break out. But his first appraisal of the detention quarters had been the right one. Given a pickaxe and a shovel, and an uninterrupted period of, say, a week, he might be able to tunnel under one of the log walls. But otherwise, he could not see any other way of getting free. Save to walk out through the cell door. Drew threw himself on the bunk and tried to think logically and clearly, but his tired body went over his mind, and he slept.

Hey, you, Kirby, wake up. There's someone here to see you. Drew reached for the colt, which was no longer under his pillow, and then rolled over and sat up groggily, rubbing one hand across his smarting eyes. The lantern light had given way to dusty sunshine. One bar of which, now, caught him straight across the face. "'All right, Kirby. Suppose you tell me what this is all about?' Drew's head came up, his head, and fell. Hunt Rennie and Lieutenant Spath stood side by side beyond the bars. Or rather, not Hunt Rennie, but Don Cazar was there, for the owner of the range was wearing the formal Spanish dress in which Drew had first seen him, and his expression, He was one of withdrawal. They think that I'm one of Kitchell's men, and that I had something to do with those stolen horses we found on the range.

He blurted it out badly. They also showed me about six hundred dollars in gold found on you, Rennie returned. I thought you needed a job. You told Toplin that, didn't you? Yes, sir. Drew's bewilderment grew stronger. Hunt Rennie sounded. As if he believed part of Bayless' accusation. The money's rightfully mine, Drew added. You can prove it? Sure, back in Kentucky, Drew paused. Back in Kentucky? Proof would not help him here and now in Arizona. Kentucky. Rennie's withdrawal appeared to increase by a score of miles. I understood you were from Texas. Told you, Rennie, the lieutenant said. His story doesn't hold together at all. A couple of really good questions, and it falls right apart. I came here from Texas.

Drew took stiff hold of himself. He was walking that narrow ledge again, and with a wind, ready to push him off into a bottomless gulf. Rode with a wagon train as far as Santa Fe, from there on with military supply wagons to Tucson. I was in Kentucky after the war. Went home with a boy from my scout company. "'Who gave you two-blooded horses and a belt full of gold for a good-bye present?' scoffed Spath. "'Have you any proof of what you say closer than Kentucky?' Rennie ignored the lieutenants' side. "'I can account for your time on the range, or most of it, but you'll have to answer for this money and where you came from originally. What about your surrender parole? I know you did have papers for the horses.

Callie saw them. Produced those.' "'I can't.' Drew's hands bawled in the fists, where they rested on his knees. "'Sure you can't. You never had any,' Spath returned. "'I had them. I don't have them now. What was the use of trying to tell Rennie about his suspicions of Shannon? And if Johnny had destroyed the papers as well, he might have. Drew could never make them believe him, anyway.' "'Kirby, this is serious,' said Rennie. "'You ride in from nowhere.' With two fine horses wearing a brand you say is your own. You have more money than any drifter ever carries. You claim to be a Texan, and yet now you say all the proof of your identity is in Kentucky. And you are not Anson Kirby's cousin, are you?

That last question was shot out so suddenly that Drew answered before he thought, No. I thought so, Hunt ready nodded. Education is a polisher, but I don't think three or four years of schooling would have made a Texas Range Rider ask for sherry over whiskey, except to experiment with an exotic beverage. There were other things, too, which did not fit the kirby background once Anse turned up. Just who are you? Drew shrugged. That doesn't matter now, as the Lieutenant and Captain Bayliss have pointed out, if my only proof is in Kentucky and out of reach. "'I suppose you have heard of telegraphs.' Rennie's sarcasm was cold. "'Communication with Kentucky is not so impossible as you appear to think.

You give me a name and an address, or names and addresses, and I'll do the rest. All you have to do is substantiate background and your Army service, proving no possible contact with Kitchell. Then the Captain will be forced to admit a mistake.' Give Hunt Rennie the name. Of Cousin Meredith Barrett, of Aunt Marianna's husband, Major Forbes, the addresses of Red Spring or Oak Hill, Drew could not, while there was a chance that Ants might find the papers or make Johnny Shannon admit taking them, the Kentuckian could not tell Hunt Rennie who he was here and now. "'I want to talk to Ants,' he said, out of his own thoughts. "'I've got to talk to Ants.' He's gone." Rennie's two words did not make sense at first.

When they did, Drew jumped up and caught at the bars. Gone where? Cleared out, cut clean away. Again Spath supplied the information. Or so they tell us. He went back to the stronghold after he broke through our lines. But when a patrol rolled down to get him, he was gone. Why, Drew asked. Why pick him up? Why? "'Because he's in this, too,' Spath retorted. "'Probably rode straight to Kitchell's hideout. "'Now Mr. Rennie time's up. "'The captain authorized his visit, "'because he thought you might just get something out of the prisoner.' "'Well, you did. "'An admission he's been passing under a false name. "'We know what he is, a renegade horse-thief.' Drew was no longer completely aware of either man, but as Rennie turned away, He broke through the mist of confusion, which seemed to be enclosing him more tightly than the walls of the cell.

"'Shannon. Where's Shannon?' Aunt Rennie's head swung around. "'What about Johnny?' he demanded. "'He took my papers out of my belt. That was probably the worst thing he could do, to accuse Johnny Shannon without proof.' "'What papers? And why should he want them? If Rennie had been remote before, now...' He was chill, as the Texas norther's aunts had joked about. The parole, the horse papers, some letters. You saw him take them? You know why he should want them? Drew shook his head once. He could not answer the second question now. Then how do you know Johnny took them? How did he know? Drew could give no sane reason for his conviction that it had been Johnny's fingers which had looted the pockets of papers.

And stuffed leaves and grass in their place. You'll have to do better than that kid, Spath laughed. You must have known Shannon was gone, too. By the time he's back from Mexico, he won't need to prove that that's a lie. Drew disregarded the lieutenant's comments. Rennie was the one who mattered. And in that moment, the Kentuckian knew that he had made a fatal mistake. Why hadn't he agreed to telegraph Kentucky? Now there was no hope. As far as Don Cazar was concerned, one Drew Kirby could be written off the list. Drew had made an enemy of the very person he most wanted to convince. The Kentuckian swung around and walked to one small barred window through which he could see the sun. He walked blindly, trying not to hear those spurred boots moving out of the door, going away.

14 14 - Chapter 14 22:12

Three good strides one way, for another, to measure the cell. Morning sun, gone by noon, daylight outside the window, becoming dusk in turn. They fed him army rations, delivered under guard, and the guard never spoke. There was no use asking questions, and Drew had none left to ask anyway. Except by the morning of the second day, after Rennie's visit, his wonder grew. Why was Bayliss delaying a formal charge against him? This wait could mean that the Captain was not finding it so easy to prove he really did have a renegade horse thief in custody. But Drew knew he must pin no hopes on a thread that fine. What had happened to Anse? And Shannon, gone to Mexico? He must have ridden back with the Colonel.

Drew could expect nothing more from Rennie or Toppin. The Triffins? Spath had marched them back, too, along with his prisoner. But the Lieutenant had not had them under arrest. The Mustangers were well known in this district, and could prove their reason for being where they were found. And Kitchell had raided one of their corrals last season. So they had no possible tie with the elusive outlaw. Probably by now the Triffins had returned to their hunt for the Pinto. No, there was no use thinking that any one was going to get him out of this, no one but himself, and he had bungled badly so far. Drew, his body tired, with pacing the small cell, flung himself down on the bunk and listened to the sounds of the cant.

He had pretty well worked out the routine by those sounds. The camp itself was a makeshift affair. Its core, which this cell was a part, was an old ranch building. There were tents and a few lean-tos on a plateau bounded on the east by a ravine, on the west by a creek bottom. Huts of stone, rawhide, and planks served as officers' quarters. In fact, it was no more of a fort. than the bivouacs he had known during the war. Unfortunately, this room was the most substantial part. If he could only get out and pick up his horses, then perhaps he could head for Mexico. There was a war on down there. A soldier could find an anonymous refuge in a foreign army. Shelby's whole Confederate command had crossed the Rio Grande just to do that.

That part was easy. To get out of here, That was what he could not accomplish. Two men always came together when they fed him, and they didn't open the cell door, just pushed the plate through. A sentry was on duty outside. Drew could beat time to the sound of those footfalls day and night, and suppose he did get free of the cell, he would have to have a horse supplies arms. Drew rolled over on the cot and buried his face on his folded arms. He might as well try to get out of here by using willpower alone to turn locks. They left the lantern burning all night to keep a light on him, and the sentry looked in the peephole every time he passed. The Kentuckian did not just know when it was that he became conscious of the noise overhead.

Lizards, maybe even rats, could move about the beams, hidden by the aged brown mantis strips. But surely this was too late in the season for a lizard to be so lively by night, when the temperature dropped with the rapidity of a weight plunging earthward. And rats aloft? Drew did not change his position on the bunk, but his body tensed. No rat would stay in one place, gnawing with such purpose and concentration at a spot in the darkest corner of the cell roof. Ants? How or why the Texan could be at work there? Drew did not know. But that there was a stealthy attempt being made to reach him from above, he was now sure. His teeth closed on his wrist as he lay listening to that scratching above, to the regular advance and retreat of the sentry.

He heard the man pause by the door and knew he was under inspection. Well, let the Yankee look. He would see his prisoner peacefully sleeping. Now the trooper was moving on. The noise above became sharper. There was a slight crackle. The linen roofing sagged under a burden, and Drew caught his breath in a gasp. Miraculously, the yellow cloth supported the object, a bulge as big as a saddlebag, a portion of the roof which had given way, the scratching which had still began again. Then the bulge was gone, pulled away from above. Dust sprinkled down. From the disturbed Manta. In the next instant, Drew moved. Using his hands on either side of his body, he raked up the straw which filled the box bunk.

In a swift movement, timed to the sentry's passing to the farthest point from the spy hole, the Kentuckian rolled to the floor, slapped and pulled the blanket into place over the mounded straw. Not too good. It certainly would not fool any inspection within the room. But in the lantern light, and this far from the door, the improvised dummy might satisfy the glance of the sentry for some precious seconds. Drew was across the cell, flattened against the wall, under the still-quivering strip of material. More bulges appeared and disappeared, fragments falling and retrieved. Then a sharp point pierced downward. The tip of a knife slid through the tough stuff. A slash, and the manta peeled back against the wall of the cell.

"'Senor!' It was so faint a whisper Drew hardly caught it. Yes, he looked up with desperate eagerness into what he had hoped to see, the dark splotch of a hole. A rawhide lariat smoothly braided, oiled into supple silkiness, dangled through. Drew got his hands on it. Pulled it back against the wall as the sentry returned. He held his breath during that pause beside the spy-hole, a pause which lathened alarmingly. Then his body jerked in answer to his sound a half a second before he realized what manner of sound. The sentry had sneezed. He sniffled, too, loudly. Then he went on to complete his beat. The blanket and the straw, they had worked. Drew pulled at the lariat, was answered by a returned jerk.

He jumped and began the climb. Then, with a wrench, he was through the hole, other hands helping to pull. Come, pronto. The hands were pushing, urging. He wriggled forward. Teodoro Triffin, but why? There was no time to ask. Drew could only obey directions. They made a worm's progress along the full length of the old ranch building. and dropped the lariat for a ladder to the ground. They crossed a small part of the camp near the ravine with the same caution they had used on the roof. Senor, Theodore's lips were at Drew's ear, as the boy pressed against him a thin cover of shadow. Left a big stone. Put your hands on it. Swing about and down. Drew had to take that on blind trust. He had no idea.

What kind of drop waited below? And only by firm willpower did he follow orders. But his boot soles met a solid surface. Then he was caught about the waist, and Hilario's voice whispered to him, "'Seor, you stand, so?' His hands fumbled about him, looping him with a supporting lariat. "'Now we go. Your hand, seor.' Drew's left hand was caught in a tight grip. Which pulled him to the right, face to the wall. So secured, he inched along what he knew must be the face of the ravine, his toes on some small ledge midway between lip and foot. Somehow the three of them reached the ground level, their diagonal course of descent putting some distance between them and the camp. In spite of the cold of the night, Drew was wet with sweat as they threaded through heady sagebrush.

Now came the scent of horses, the sound of a hoof stamped impatiently on the gravel. "'Triffin'? Top him here. See.' At Hilario's hissed a scent, a figure detached itself from the utter black of the bushes and moved forward into a sliver of moonlight. "'You got him?' "'I'm here, if that's what you mean,' Drew answered for himself. "'And you'll be gone soon,' the gambler replied. But there's one thing I have to know, Kirby. Were you telling the truth to Rennie? Do you believe Johnny took your papers?" What had that to do with the matter at hand? Drew wondered. But from the urgency of the demand, he knew it did mean a great deal to Topham. Yes, I'm sure, but I can't prove it. Unless I find them with him, he may have destroyed them already.

Drew put in the words the black foreboding which had ridden him for days. Why, what do they mean to him? Evasions and lies had got him into this mess. Now he would see what stark truth would do. Because they were two letters. Proof, I'm Drew Rennie. Rennie? Toppin repeated. In the light, Drew could not see his expression, but his voice was that of a completely baffled man. Rennie? I'm Hunt Rennie's son. There, he had said it. And nothing startling happened. Well, what had he expected? A clap of thunder? A bolt of lightning? The sudden appearance of a cavalry patrol across the nearest hilltop? So that's it, Toppin said slowly, and Shannon suspected. But why the mystery, and... Drew took the questions in turn.

Shannon was at the Jacks when I met Ants. I thought he was unconscious, but he probably wasn't. Anse called me by my right name. And as for why, my father doesn't know I'm alive. He was told I'd died at birth along with my mother. They told me he was killed in the Mexican War before I was born. It was all because of an old family feud. Too long a story to tell now. I've only known for about a year. I had a father here in Arizona. But to make a claim on him, after all these years... Maybe you don't understand why I didn't want to. He was telling it badly, but he had been a fool about this from the start. Understand? Yes, I think I can. There's a certain strain of bullheaded independence common to Rennies.

I've met it head-on several times myself. And your choice was your own to make. But this, yes, it is just a move Shannon would make, given suspicion to push him into action. And now it may be pushing him even farther. Drew was a little bewildered by Topham's ready acceptance of his story without any proof, but the tone of the last remark caught his full attention. What do you mean? What's happened now? I've had suspicions, pretty nasty ones for some time. But I had your trouble, no proof. In the last three days I've picked up and sorted out a few very wild cards. And now they make a pat hand. Kitchell has had his contact hereabouts all right, just as Bayliss has always insisted. You can't mean Shannon.

Johnny Shannon. And if he's doing what I think he is, Toppen paused. When he continued, he had changed the subject. Last night, Nye rode up from the range, said that Kitchell had made a raid, almost a clean sweep. Among other stock. He gathered up was that prized stud of yours. Shiloh? Aunt Shannon had the horse papers. The Kentuckian was thinking fast now. Yes, if Shannon is riding with Kitchell, now he can prove ownership of the stud and sell him anywhere without trouble. Toppin could have been reading Drew's mind, but that's not as important as something else. Hunt went hell-bent for leather out of here. He'll gather up that private army of his and try to trail the raiders. Maybe Kitchell will ride south, or maybe he'll head directly back into Apache country.

Either way, the trail's going to be as easy for anyone after him as walking barefoot through a good roaring fire. Hunt still has blind faith in Johnny. I was hoping you could help break that. "'That's why you got me out of the camp?' Drew asked. "'Partly. Hunt told me what you said about Johnny taking your papers. I had you sized up as being too smart to make a claim like that, unless you really believed it. And I thought maybe you could prove it, give it a chance. If you could get to Hunt now, tell him the real truth before Johnny rigged something of a double-cross.' "'Would he believe me any more than he did when I accused Shannon?' Drew asked bleakly. I'll head south, all right. Nobody's going to lift Shiloh and get away with it, as long as I'm able to fork a saddle and push.

But if you're counting on my being able to influence my father," he stumbled over the word awkwardly, don't. I'm counting on nothing, Toppin returned. Just hoping now. For a long time we've heard about Johnny Shannon, being a young hothead, who found it hard to settle down after the war. I think there are two Johnnies, and we're just beginning to know the real one. You could be his prime target now." Fair of you to point that out. Drew thought that at last he had found a real motive for Toppin's services. I'm likely to be bait. Ain't that the truth of it? If you are, the trap is going to be there. But now get away from here. Teodoro will ride with you as a guide. And the army after me? That's it, Drew had mounted.

That's what you want, isn't it? Me to pull the troops south, hunting down an escaped horse thief they might slam into Kitchell. What a trick. Topham had planned it without asking Drew's support, but it called for enough audacity, luck, and nerve to be appealing. During the war, the Kentuckian had seen such schemes win out time and time again. Why ain't Bayless already ridin', he asked. Hasn't he heard about the raid? He's been heard to say a man can raid his own stock as a cover-up. What's wrong with him? Is he deaf, dumb, and blind? No, just prejudiced, and ridden by envy, until he's not able to think straight any more. But he'll track you and follow quick enough. He sure will. All right, we ride.

They did, drew dependent upon the younger Triffin's guidance. And while Teodoro... Said a meandering trail, it was not one which a determined pursuer would have too much trouble following. Come sun-up or whenever, that sentry discovered he was guarding a straw prisoner. Once, when they pulled up to breathe their horses, dismounting to loose cinches and cool the backs of the mounts, Drew indulged this curiosity further. How come you knew just where to make that hole to let me out? Teodoro laughed. That was easy, senor. That was the Garza Rancharo, only six months as the army been there. Many times we have camped within its walls, when we brought in the best of the wild catch for sale. I know those buildings very well.

When senor Toppen tells my father what must be done, we could plan well and quickly. I have heard what you said to senor Toppen, that you are the son of Don Cazar. Why did he not know of this?" Why have you never lived here with him? He didn't know I was alive, and I didn't know that he was. My grandfather, my mother's father, he hated Don Cazar very much, because of a duel and other things. So my father took my mother away secretly, brought her to Texas when they were both very young. Then Don Cazar went to war, and the news came that he had been killed. My grandfather went to Texas and took my mother home with him. She died a few months later, when I was born. It was only after my grandfather died two years ago that letters from my father were found among his private papers.

These I discovered when I came home from the war, learning that my father was alive and here in Arizona. Only we were strangers. I did not know whether he would like me for a son. Or whether I wanted a stranger for a father. So when I came here, I took the name of my compadre, my friend from the war, Ance Kirby. I wanted to know my father before I made my claims. And, Señor Juanito, for this he will hate you? Because I did not tell who I was at the start? Drew asked. No, because you are truly Don Cazar's son. Always Don Cazar, he treated Señor Juanito as a son. But I do not think that was enough. Senor Juanito, he is one who must have everything, all. Even when he was a boy, he was like that.

Puerto Lomo, Rivas, he braids beautiful ropes, and he made one for Juanito. Always I wanted a rope like that. I would watch Juanito use it and wish. Then once we spent Christmas at the stronghold. It was after my father was hurt, and Don Cazar had us to stay there. So he could tend my father's wounds. Had he been with us, when the Wild One stampeded, my father would not walk crooked, but we got him back to the ranch too late. But that is not what I would say. It was Christmas, and Don Cazar gave to me a rope like that of Juanito, a fine rope which felt as if it were part of a man's own arm when he swung it. Two days later, that rope, it was gone. Never did I find it, but I knew I had seen Juanito watching me when I'd tried that fine rope, and I knew his thoughts.

No one must have a rope as good as Juanito's. Not long after that, he ran away to join the army. But really that was because Don Cazar caught him beating one of the Indios. Only that is not generally known. The Indio was being taught by Don Cazar To have charge of the grain storage. And Juanito thought that Indios are as dirt. Should have no place among Anglos. Senor Juanito would hate, with a black hate, anyone who has a right to be a son at the stronghold. A better right than he could claim. He must always be on top at the head. Sometimes it would seem that he would, if he could, push aside Don Kassar himself. Now I think we should ride again." By dawn, Drew had no idea where they were, except that they had pushed south.

Whether they were now on the range, he did not know, and how in the immensity of this hostile country they could fulfill Toppin's hopes and lead the troop patrol to Rennie's posse was something that the Kentuckian did not even try to answer. The border lay south. If Kitchell had made such a sweeping raid, He would be certain to run the animals in that direction, for the outlaw was fully aware of Rennie's reputation and temper, and knew that Don Cazar would trail him with set determination. This meant the outlaw must have set up some plan for avoiding pursuit. Rouse the Apaches, for perhaps an ambush either could work, then Bayless's men could be a saving factor. If the Kentuckian could locate Rennie and ride into his camp, or skulk close enough to it, that should bring the troops down.

But where was Hans? The Texan had not simply cleared out because of imminent trouble. Drew was sure of that. Had he followed Shannon to Mexico, this was one time when Drew could well understand the exasperation and frustration felt by an officer whose scouts did not report in as ordered. and who had no idea of the disposition of reinforcements. Talk about going into something blind, but still he rode at a steady, mile-covering pace southward.

15 15 - Chapter 15 22:18

Still south, Theodoro pointed out the hoof-prints deep in the soft earth beside the water-hole. Drew steadied himself with one hand on the stirrup-leathers as he stooped to see more clearly. He was groggy, with lack of sleep, and felt that if he once allowed himself to slip completely to ground level, he would not get up again. Rennie's Riders. Teodoro was on one knee, conning the massive tracks as if they were a printed page. See, there is the mark of Bartolome Riva's horse. It has a misshapen hoof. The shoe must always be well fitted. How far are they ahead now? Drew had come to depend upon the young mustanger's judgment. Teodoro apparently was close to a pima in his ability to read trace. Two hours may be three, but they will be at the pass, and there they will stay.

Why, I think they will lay a trap for the raiders. There has been no sign that they trail now behind driven horses. Don Cazar does not pursue. He rides to cut off the road to Mexico. Kitchell's men, they would not take the open Sonora Trail. That is folly for them. So they travel, one ridden by men, with a price on their heads. If Kitchell now moves south to stay, he will have with him all that he can carry, and he must come this way. If he hasn't gone already, there is no sign. Teodoro repeated stubbornly. So we keep on ahead. Drew got down on both knees, splashed the muddy water-hole liquid into his face in an effort to clear his head. They had changed mounts twice since leaving the camp, both times at the water forts on the range, and the second time they had chanced three hours sleep and a hot meal.

But the rest of the time it was ride. Chew on jerky and cold tortillas, And depend on Teodoro's sense of direction to take them eventually to their goal. The outlaw's gate into Mexico. Drew had long since stopped looking over his shoulder for any thundering advance of cavalry. If Bayliss was hunting the fugitives, he was not pushing the pace too hard. Not ahead, no. Teodoro drank from his cupped hands. We go so. He sketched a gesture east. Why? It is never well to be shot by one's friends. The mustanger achieved a half-smile, stretching the skin of his gaunt young face. Always it is better to see before being seen. When they started, he led the way to the left at a walk. Drew aroused now, looked about him carefully.

This was rough country, cut by pinnacles of red and yellow rock. Backed by purple ridges of the greater heights. It was desert land, too. They had long since left the abundance of the valley behind them. Here was the stiff angularity of cactus, the twisted vegetation of an arid land. The crack of a carbine shattered the empty silence. Drew pulled on reins, as a second shot dug up a spurt of dust just beyond Teodoro's mount. Hold it right there. That disembodied voice could have come from anywhere, but Drew thought it was from above and behind. Someone holed up in the rocks, had them as perfect targets. The Kentuckian did not try to turn his head. There was no use giving the sharpshooter an excuse.

All right, you, the voice was hollow, its timber distorted by echo. Throw off your guns and get down, one at a time. The mechs first. Drew watched Teodoro slide out of the saddle. Stand away from that horse, easy now. The mustanger obeyed. Now you do just like him. Drew followed instructions carefully. Hands up high. Now turn around. They turned. A figure detached itself from among the rocks they had passed moments earlier, and came down toward them, car being ready. Ants! Drew stumbled toward the Texan. The other's hat was gone. A torn shirt sleeve flapped about his left arm, allowing sight of a neckerchief knotted about his forearm. His coat trailed from one shoulder. What in the world happened to you?

Ant sat down suddenly. On one of the boulders, his gaze on Drew. He shook his head slowly. "'Ain't seein' things,' he said. "'That's you, ain't it? Say, got any water?' His tongue curled over cracked lips. Drew snatched the canteen from his saddle and hurried forward. More than a bloodstained bandage marked Anse. He could see now. He waited while the other seized the canteen avidly and drank. Then the Texan was smiling at him. Seems as how we're always meeting up, don't it, now? Likewise, it's to my benefit, too. Only this time I've got something to trade. You keep on going down this trail, compadre. "'And maybe you'll wind up with a spade patting you down nice and smooth.' "'What happened?' Anse drank again, with the discipline of a plains rider, a mouthful at a time.

"'What didn't would be more like it, amigo? Yesterday? Well, they got my horse, tried to get me. Only left their mark, though,' Anse said, regarding his arm ruefully. "'I've been wearing off boot heels, hoofing it ever since.' "'Trying to make it back to that waterhole.' "'Who shot your horse?' "'I didn't see no name, printed, big cross's jacket. But I'm thinking it was Shannon.' "'You were in Mexico?' Anse shook his head. "'No, and Shannon ain't there neither. I trailed along, riding the Highlines careful. When he went with that there mech's Colonel and his men. Stayed with him about a day, Shannon did. Then another man, Anglo.' wrote into their camp. He had him a chin-fest with Shannon, and Johnny saddled up pronto, beat it with a stranger.

Thought he might be heading home, but he weren't. So I kept on riding into their dust, and waiting to find out what it was all about. Shannon and this hombre, they hit it up a pretty good lick till they got well away from the Sonora Trail. Then they skinned it down till you'd think they had all month and a handful of extra Sundays. To get wherever they was goin'. Plum wore me down amblin' long the way they did. I sure enough bout scraped off my horse's hoofs, cutting down his speed. Spent a whole day just loungin' round in one camp. I'd say they was waitin' for someone, only nobody ever showed. So they went on, me followin'. I'll tell you one thing. This new hombre Shannon took up with, he was a real hard case.

A short trigger man. If I ever laid eyes on one. Anyway, we just kept on. Me trying to think if I should inj him up to get the drop on him or not. Seemed to me, though. It's how it might be brighter to kind of drift their way and see what was making them rattle their hocks out in the middle of nowhere. Guess I weren't as smart as I thought I was. As I said yesterday, suddenly, they give the spurs and let out. Me, I guess. I got kind of upset, got losin' him, and followed him a bit hasty. Horse came down with a hole in him. Me, I took another. Gave him a good sight of a man plugged where it means the most, and that must have convinced him I wasn't no problem no more. So that was what happened.

I just pulled as green a trick as a sodbuster trying to crawl a wild one. And where Shannon is now I don't know. Only I don't think it's in Mexico." Probably with Kitchell, hurriedly, Drew filled in his own experiences and what he had learned from Toppin. Anse looked about him. For territory what looks so bare, he commented, this stretch of country sure must have a site of population wandering round in it. The old man and his posse somewhere up ahead, and Shannon and that sidekick of his, and Kitchell maybe, as well as the Yankees, hot-footed it behind you. Or so you hope. Lordy, this is going to be the Battle of Nashville over again. Do they all meet up? All we need is a couple of bullpups up on one of them ridges, and we could blow them all to hell and gone.

Just which bunch is going to claim us first? Senors, that is already decided," Teodoro said quietly. Drew looked up. Where'd they come from, those four? Out of the rocks themselves? He only knew that now they were there, rifles over their forearms, ready to swing sights on the three below. His heart gave a lurch, a patchy's, and then on the far right he recognized Grayfeather, Rennie's chief scout. And it was Grayfeather who pointed to them and to the way ahead, who gave an emphatic wave of the hand, which was an order, leading their horses they obeyed. The Pimas falling in behind. The backdoor route to the pass was a rough one. They had to leave the horses and climb. Two of the Pimas always in sight behind.

Guns ready. And sighed. Seems like we have lots of luck, all of it plain bad. These engines run us in. As far as the old man's concerned, we're just what everybody claims we is. We're a couple of saddle bums, as is only on the loose. "'Cause we got up earlier and owned faster horses than the sheriff. How'd we ever get our saddles slipped round so wrong, anyway?" "'I did it,' Drew said bitterly. "'It's not any of your doing, Ants. Tied myself up in a string of lies, and now they have me tight. So help me, Ants. If I ever get this unsnarled, I'm never goin' to open my mouth again to say more than yes or no.' The Texan laughed. "'You ain't never been one to color up a story redder than a Navajo blanket.

And don't take on the whole pack of this when all you about the salt bag is of your buying. You ain't responsible for Kitchell nor Johnny Shannon nor Bayliss wanting to down the old man. Can't see as how much of this is your doing after all.' Rennie had set his ambush at the pass with care. At first sight there was no evidence of men lying in wait. But from the heights over which the Pimas brought their charges, Drew caught glimpses of men crouched behind sheltering rocks. The bulk of the ranged posse was gathered in a hollow on the south side of the pass, and it was there that Grayfeather delivered his catch. Don Cazar surveyed them, almost without interest. "'Bellis released you, then,' he said to Drew.

"'No. Restop them, and the Triffins broke me out.' Drew kept to his recent vow of truth-telling, and he noticed with a spark of something approaching satisfaction, the truth seemed able to shake Rennie a little. Reese Toppen broke you out? Why? The demand was quick and to the point. He wanted me to play fox for the Army's hounds. Bring the troopers south here, Drew replied. Bayless wouldn't march out, and Toppen thought that you needed some support. With Kitchell apparently on the move. Telling the truth did not mean you had to tell all of it. There was no reason to bring Shannon into this now and antagonize Rennie all over again. He what? His father was staring at him now with pure amazement.

But that doesn't make sense, he added as if to himself. No, I think it does, sir. Kitchell wouldn't have dared to raid the range if he were going to stay in this country, would he? And after such a raid, he'd head south. You'd believe that much, or you wouldn't be waiting for him now. Nobody knows how many men ride with that gang, and maybe he can pull in the Apaches, too. They wouldn't pass up a good chance to get back at you. You have the reputation of being about the only white men in this territory that'll make them turn tail and give up a fight. Now supposing you do get Kitchell stopped here at the pass, And the Army Patrol comes in behind him. Then together you can finish him, and perhaps some Bronco Apaches into the bargain.

It could work. Drew paused and then went on. Of course, I have a good reason of my own for being here, apart from not wanting to swallow Captain Bayless's brand of justice. Kitchell's men took Shiloh, and nobody, nobody at all, sir, is going to run off that horse. Not while I'm able to do something about it. Seems to me, sir," Anse cut in now, that three more guns is going to be healthy for you to have around here. Does the fight work out the way it can? Me, I don't make no big brag on my shooting, but I never did wear no six-gun nor tote no carbine just for show. Of course, if you think we're Kitchell's plants, Drew added, then keep us under guard. Only were not and never were. Topham. Topham planned this.

Rennie still showed surprise. I don't. A bird called flutingly. Rennie stiffened. Men moved upslope into cover, without direction. You two get up there, behind those pointed rocks, Don Cazar directed with a stab of his finger. I'll be right behind you. Wayne about to give you no trouble, Ann said as he obeyed. And Drew agreed as he followed the Texan into hiding. "'I'd like a rifle just about now,' Ance remarked. "'Only thing I've ever held against a six-gun is that it don't throw lead as far as a fellow could sometimes want it to. But I think we've sort of been ruled out of this here fight, less than the enemy gets close enough to spit at.' Now they could see down the cut to the pass, the narrow passage wound between rocks.

And Drew... Though he could not spot them, did not doubt that Rennie's forces were snuggled in where a surprise volley could do the most good. Something sure is coming. Ants had one hand flat on the ground. Feels like the whole dang army's hoofing it in fast. Drew was aware of it, too. The vibration carrying through stone and soil, the drumming of hoofs, horses coming at a run. Now it was more than a vibration. A distinct roll of sound magnified and echoed, and he caught a shout or two, the cries of men hazing on laggards. It must be Kitchell on his way to the border. A dust haze rising like smoke. Then the foremost runner of the band appeared in the cut, the whites of its eyes showing, patches of foam, sticky on chest and shoulder.

Five, ten, even a dozen, but not a gray coat among them. One light buckskin had almost startled Drew into rising until he caught a second and clearer look. The leaders were through, and a second wave was coming. Drew counted twenty more horses before the first rider appeared. His face was masked against the dust by a neckerchief drawn up to eye level, but unlike the ordinary range rider, he wore an army forage cap in place of the wide-brimmed hat of the plains. As he spurred by below, Drew's perch, he glanced up, but seemed to have no suspicion that he was under observation. There came more horses, and Drew stopped counting. But the gray he had sought was not among them. The shouts of the drivers were louder, and then, as three men appeared bunched, there was a crackle of shots.

Two of the riders fell, one leaning slowly from the saddle, the other diving into the dust. The third tried to turn, but did not get his horse around before a mule pushed into him, followed by another and another. The horse thieves were trapped. Drew could hear the sharp snap of shots along the pass. More than those three must have been caught in the ambush. The mule, spraying and running wild, thundered on south after the horses. Then a saddled horse, riderless, galloped by with a second at its heels. Confused shouting rang out, without any meaningful words. This was as much a muddle, Drew thought, as any battle. You never saw any action except that immediately about you. Mostly you were too busy trying to keep alive to care about incidentals.

Come to think about it, this was about the first time he'd ever sat out a fight watching it as a spectator. The roll of firing was dying down now. Anse grinned at him. "'Takes you right back, don't it now?' he asked, when he could be heard. "'This old man, he got him some of the General's ideas. Worked good, too.' "'I didn't see Shiloh in that band,' Drew stood up. "'Couple of duns, no greys.' "'Come to think of it,' Anse agreed. "'That's right. But look at that bay, down there.' He pointed to one of the saddled horses that had a dragging rein caught in a dead juniper stump. and was trying to pull loose. Got the R.R. brand. Some of these must be from the range raid. Hey, down there, the hail broke down the pass from the north.

Rennie climbed over his rock barricade, and other men came out of cover to move up the cut. Since no one tried to stop them, Drew and Anse went along. Got us two of them ready to talk. Jared and I strode to meet his employer. They're Kitchell's gang, all right, only he ain't with them. Patron, for the first time since he had known him, Drew saw Bartolome Rivas run. He was weaving in and out among the fallen men in the pass. They ride. He was half choked by the effort to force his message past heavy gulps for breath. Who rides, Reddy demanded. Three, four men that way. He waved a plump hand to the east. They go like the wind, Don Cazar, and one, he rides the Big Gray. Drew whirled. The Big Gray.

There was only one horse to be named so on the range. Some of the outlaws had escaped the trap, and one was riding Shiloh. Drew found the horse with the tangled rein, jerked and tore at the leather strap, and was in the saddle when a hand caught at the rein he had just freed. "'Where do you think you're going?' Aunt Rennie demanded. Drew snapped the rein out of the other's hold. There was only one thing he wanted now, and that was getting farther and farther away with every second he wasted here. After Shiloh, he used spurs on the horse, and it leaped ahead. For all he knew, any one of the posse might take a shot at him, so he rode low in the saddle. He heard startled cries, saw Bartolome Rivas stumble.

as he got out of the path of the wild horse. There were rocks, sand, a body, which the horse avoided in a leap. Then there was free ground, and Drew settled down to ride. A horse was coming up from behind. They need not think they were going to stop him now. Drew turned his head as the mount pulled level with his own. He was ready to fight if need be. Only the man in the saddle was Hunt Rennie. "'Better find out which way to go before you break your neck, or that bay's legs,' Rennie called, "'out beyond that pillar that east.'" Drew nodded, but Rennie did not fall back. He was riding his heavy-duty horse, a gorilla famous for its staying power. And now the Kentuckian regained his proper share of common sense and began to pull in the bay.

As his father had pointed out, a broken neck Where a horse's broken leg was not going to bring Shiloh any closer. He heard the sound of other horses, and glanced back as they wheeled around the pillar to the east. Four riders were bunched, Anse Nye, Teodoro, and Donnelly. That made six of them in all, pursuing four fugitives over miles of countryside, which might have been shaped with no other purpose in mind than to shelter men on the run. But perhaps... They could come up with a quarry soon. Shiloh. He had to get Shiloh. Drew began to call upon all the horsemen's knowledge and scouts' lore that he possessed. Those qualities, rather than fighting power, was what he believed he needed now. With luck.

Always with a large-sized helping of luck.

16 16 - Chapter 16 20:26

Now that you have that bucked out, how about a little sound reasoning? Hunt Rennie still held his position, riding stirrup to stirrup with Drew. The worst of it was Don Cazar was right. This was no time for raw emotion to replace thinking. Already it was almost dusk. and their quarry could not be traced into the dark, even if they had the aid of a full moon. The Kentuckian reined in. Growing shadows masked the country ahead, rough territory, which he did not doubt. The fugitives knew far better than he did. All right. It was difficult. One of the most difficult things he had ever done, to admit even that much, that he must follow Rennie's lead. What do I do now? You still think you can go it alone?

Want to? Rennie's face was shadowed, and his voice again held that remote note. It's my horse, Drew was defensive. Stolen on my range, Rennie retorted. This is far more my fight than yours. If we didn't get Kitchell back there at the pass, and I'm inclined to believe we did not, then I want him. You don't kill a rattler by cutting off his rattles. You go for the head. But this rattler's on his homeland, and he knows where to hole up. We have only one card to play against him. What's that, sir? Water. Oh, I know all the rumors that Apaches have secret water holes back in the hills, and they may have introduced Kitchell to some of them, but the hills are behind him. He'll want just one thing now to get south across the border.

He's lost a large number of his men, probably all of his loot. Back there at the pass. He can't hold out any longer here. Once he's in Sonora, we can't touch him. I know he has friends down there. Could he try to take the wagon road south? As a last resort, perhaps, the pass was the only outlet through which he could run that band of stolen horses and his pack mules. But there are other places, at least two I know of, where few men, riding light, can get through. I believe he'll try to head for one of those. Make it ahead of us now? Rennie laughed shortly. If he does, he'll have a warm reception. Those Pimas are already scouting both passes. We planned to close the border when we set up that ambush.

Meanwhile, he glanced back. Teodoro? See, Don Cazar. How far are we from your hunting campsite? Two, maybe three miles. Slow riding in the dark, Don Cazar. We'll head there. That, except for the hole behind us, which Bartolome will cover, is the only water for miles. And we're between Kitchell and the border spring. One thing we'll have to have is water. We can stake out the pools, and sooner or later they will come to us." It made sense, but still Drew was impatient. Out there, one of Kitchell's men, where perhaps the outlaw himself was riding Shiloh. The fact that Rennie's plan seemed to gamble did not make it any easier to follow, but the Kentuckian could think of nothing better to offer. The moon was rising as they came to the waterhole near the Mustangers' camp.

Men and animals drank together, and when Drew dismounted, his weariness hit hard. Fatigue was a gray cloud in his brain, a weight on his arms, legs, body. Voices around him sounded faint and far away. As he steadied himself with a grasp of the stirrup leathers, and fought not only to keep on his feet, but awake. What's the matter with you, boy? Drew tried to lift his head. He tried to summon words to answer that demand. A sullen kind of pride made him release his hold and stand away from the bay, only to reel back and bring up hard against a rock, grating his arm painfully. He clung there for a moment and got out. Nothing a little sleep won't cure. He spoke into the dark outline of Hunt Rennie.

I'm all right. Drew made a painful effort, pulled himself away from the rock to fumble at the cinches of the bay's saddle, only to be pushed aside. Steer him over there, Pierce. Bet him down. Kentuckian's last scrap of protest leaked away. He hardly knew when a blanket was pulled up over him as he lay in a rock niche. Already drifting into deep sleep. Voices awoke him into the gray of early morning. The light was hardly brighter than moonlight, but he could make out Hunt Rennie, sitting cross-legged, rifle to hand, while Chino Herrera squatted on heels before him. Chino had not been with them when they left the pass, and there was Grayfeather, too. Their party had had reinforcements. Drew pushed away the blanket and sat up.

Realizing he was stiff with cold. Fire-hot coffee there was no sign of either. He yawned and jerked his coat straight about him. His attention suddenly focused on an object which lay on the ground at Chino's left. It was a book the same size as the three he had bought at Stein's. Without thinking, Drew moved forward, was about to reach for the volume, when he heard the click of a cocked colt. A hand swept down on the book. "'You hombre, what do you want with this?' Herrera, with no friendliness in either voice or eyes, was holding a gun on him. "'That book, it looks like the ones I brought in town.' Drew was startled by the vaqueros' enmity. "'Give it to him,' Rennie ordered. For a moment Herrera seemed on the point of open dispute.

Then he obeyed, but for some reason his weapon remained unholstered. Drew took up the volume. History of the conquest of Peru, he read out. The binding was a match for that of the other three. But there was something different. He weighed the volume in his hand. That was it. This book was heavier. Well, hombre, have you seen such a one before? Yes. This is bound to match those I bought from Stein, and one of those was the history and conquest of Mexico. This is surely a part of the same library. Those? What did they have in them? Rennie appeared content to let Chino ask the question, but he continued to watch Drew and the book. Have in them, Drew repeated? Why, pages! They were books to read, The Three Musketeers to Count to Monte Cristo, and History of the Conquest of Mexico.

That's all just books. Open this one, Rennie told him. The Kentuckian had trouble obeying, and for the first time he saw he did not hold a book composed of pages, but a type of box. The cover resisted his tugging. Then, as if some catch had been mastered, it opened so suddenly he almost lost his grip on the book. The core of those once separate pages had been hollowed out to contain a nest of raw cotton on which lay... The Kentuckian gasped. Even in this subdued light, those stones glittered, and their settings were gold and silver. Drew saw elaborate pieces, the like of which he had never seen before. There was a mule shot back in the past, Rennie explained. His pack was opened. Three books were in it.

One of them fell out and burst open. This one? No. It held gold coin. Hard times by Charles Dickens. The contents hardly indicative of the subject, were they? Upon investigation, the wonders of the world produced more coin. And, as you see, history of the conquest of Peru was even more fruitful. You are sure this binding matches that of the books you bought? Certain. This was bound to order, as were the other three. They were part of someone's personal library. Had no bookplate, though. And what was Stein's story concerning them? An old prospector named Lutterfield found them in a trunk in some cave located out in the desert country. He brought them in to trade for supplies. Lutterfield. Rennie repeated thoughtfully, yes, that could be.

Trunk in a cave? Herrera was skeptical. But why leave books in a trunk in a cave? One of Kitch's caches? Or else left by someone who cleared out in 61 and had to travel light. If anything remains, perhaps Lutterfield can locate it for us later. Anyway, this... Rennie took the book box from Drew, clapped the cover over, hiding the treasure. Won't go to Mexico now. And if the owner is still alive, we may even find him. Who knows? You had your sleep out, boy? Drew found Rennie's expression one of indifference. Maybe Don Cazar no longer regarded him with the cold dislike Drew had met at the camp. But they were still strangers. What he had once said back in Kentucky, at a remote and distant time, was now very true.

Maybe Hunt Rennie doesn't know I exist. Maybe we won't even like each other, if and when we do meet, I don't know. Now Drew thought he did know. Was this insurmountable barrier all his fault? Because he had been so sure he wanted to go it on his own, come to his father as an equal and not a beggar. But could he ever have acted differently? Too independent, too defensive always. Alexander Maddock had made him like that. Now it seemed that his grandfather had won, after all, because his grandson was the kind of man he was. There would be no meeting with Hunt Rennie. To claim kinship, nothing more than what now existed. I'm all right, after too long a pause. Drew replied to his father's question.

Do we just keep on sitting here? If necessary, Chino, pass those supplies you brought in. We eat cold, at least for now. You look ready to saddle up and ride. Anse was waiting behind Drew's rock. His arm rested in a sling. with a neat and reasonably clean bandage about his wound. "'How's that hole?' Drew asked, with renewed concern. "'Nothing much more'n a nick. Say the old man's like a real doc, ain't he? Carries doc things in his saddle-bags, and patched me up last night, so I'm near as good as new. After I'd drunk the wrinkles smooth out of my belly, and had me some shut-eye, why, I'm as right as four aces in any man's hand. Course I should could go with some coffee.' "'Bout strong enough to float a horseshoe gentle-like.

But we ain't bendin' lip over that this sun-up. Lordy, this jerky sure gives a man's chewers a workout." They chewed away at the dark, sun-dried carny of the border country. There was about as much flavor in it as a piece of wood, but it kept the man's insides busy and about half satisfied. And they did have water. Drew looked out over the land about them. Rennie held their small force stationed to cover every approach to the waterhole, and with the Pimas here, too. Drew was sure that they would not be surprised. Would Kitchell follow the pattern Rennie expected, try to water here, and then strike for the south? With his men scattered, many killed or taken at the pass, he had very little choice.

For some reason the Quartet of Fugitives Must have been traveling quite a distance behind the main band, and so had been warned in time by the gunfire. Was one of that four Shannon? And what would it mean to Rennie if Shannon did turn up now with Kitchell? Drew jerked back against the boulder, reacting to a screech from somewhere out in that wild country, a fierce mad sound which tore at the nerves. He had heard its like before, but never rising so to a pitch Of raw intensity, it was the challenge of a fighting stallion, one of the most terrifying sounds ever to break from the throat of an animal. From the pocket meadow came the answering squeals of their own mounts, the pounding of hoofs as they fought their stake ropes.

Don Cazar, it was Teodoro. The Pinto comes and would fight. Again that shriek of rage and utter defiance. The rocks echoed it eerily. And Drew found it hard to judge either distance or direction. The wind was rising, too, scooping up dust to throw against men and boulders. But that wild stud could not be too far away, and what had stirred him to this point of vocal outburst? "'Teodoro,' Rennie called. "'Get back there, and see if you can quiet those horses.' Drew reached for the carbine he had taken from the boot on the saddle of the captured bay. Army issue, Spencer. He appraised it with the sharp quick scrutiny of a man who had had to depend on enemy weapons before. Just how had this fallen into outlaw hands?

The arm was well kept, ready for action. Horses turned mean, turned man-killers at times, and the Pinto was reputed to be a murderer of his own species, not just content to protect his band from a raiding stallion, But actually went out of his way to seek and force a fight with other males. Could it be that now the wild killer had been drawn from hiding to meet a strange stallion? And could that stranger be Shiloh? It would mean the men they sought were circling back to this waterhole. Shiloh and the Pinto. Even when saddled and ridden, the Kentucky stallion might respond to the challenge. And so handicapped he would have no chance. Drew bit hard on his under lip. The yap-yap of a coyote sounded brazenly from the ridge behind, which Drew was almost certain the pinto had trumpeted.

"'Pass the word,' said Rennie. Riders coming.' Ants hissed it onto Donnelly, who hid in the brush behind. Drew lay tense, as if his whole body was able to listen and assess sounds. Waiting, as always, fretted the nerves. Imagination gave birth to sounds, made the quiver of a bush unnatural, planted in a man, a growing sense of eyes, boring down on his body, nakedly visible to the enemy. Drew's muscles ached. He forced tight rein on his imagination, and began the hard task of consciously schooling himself past the danger of a freeze. When and if... Attack did come. When moaning about the rocks, sand blown in his eyes and face, twice Drew, half put out his hand to the canteen, which lay between him and Ant's.

Both times he did not complete the reach. His tongue felt swollen, the saliva in his mouth, sticky, sickly tasting. No, son, this was going to be a cloudy, overcast day. He half arose. The scream came again, this time closer, more rage-filled. Drew turned his head. Cover me. He did not give Anse a chance to protest. That slope. He had been studying it carefully for long moments of the wait, gauging the distance between bits of cover. The tricky open spaces he would have to cross. But the riders they had been alerted to expect were not in sight. And if what he truly believed was about to happen did, the outlaws might never reach the waterhole at all. He was running, dodging, working his way up to the crown of the ridge, but he was still too low to see what was going on at the far side when that scream of challenge was answered.

The answer was deeper in tone, but it carried with it the same rising note of anger and fighting promise. Although Drew had never seen Shiloh prepared to give battle, he was sure he had just heard him voice such readiness. The Kentuckian flung himself flat before he reached the skyline, wriggling on in a desperate crawl. Then he lay panting, in a small earth dip, only a ragged fringe of grass between him and the downslope. Even in the swirl of wind-blown dust there was no mistaking Shiloh, rearing and fighting, To dislodge his rider, wheeling about in a circle. Three other horses and their riders had edged well beyond the circumference of that circle, the horses neighing and snorting. The squeal of the pinto was ear-wrenching, though as yet the killer's stud had not appeared in plain sight.

That cry triggered Shiloh into a fantastic effort. He reared, striking out with front hoofs, perhaps in an effort to keep his balance. Drew fully expected to see him crash over and back. Apparently his rider feared the same fall. In the dusty murk, the man separated from the horse. Shiloh whirled and pounded back, away from his rider, and, as he went, he voiced once more his answer to the pinto. Drew sighted a dark spot, moving in to intercept the gray. Then the spot turned broadside. And he appreciated what had made the pinto so elusive to hunters. The mottled red and white patches of the wild stud's coat melted into the landscape in an uncanny fashion, making the horse seem to appear and disappear as he trotted back and forth.

The Kentuckian tried to bring the Spencer in line with that weaving, distorted barrel of spotted body. What was the range? Too far, he was afraid. For a shot to count, but he knew that he could not lie there and watch the pinto cut down Shiloh in one of those vicious, deadly equine duels. The Kentucky horse had no fighting experience, and his greater bulk and height would mean little against the wily cunning of the murderer who had already tasted blood too many times. To allow Shiloh to be ripped to pieces was utterly unthinkable. The men down there no longer mattered. Drew rose to one knee, steadied the carbine, and fired. Did the pinto really flinch from a bullet-striking home, or had the dangerous sound of the gunfire caused his old caution to win out for an instant over his bloodlust?

The redhead with the dangling white forelock tossed, and then the wild horse whirled and ran. Shiloh, teeth bared, ready and willing to come to battle, followed. Drew was on his feet. Then he was pulled backward by a jerk out of nowhere, and he fell under a brown, mostly bare body, which pinned him firmly to the ground.

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Drew struggled wildly, but could not break the grip which held him down. He was looking up into the face of Grayfeather, and none of his writhing made any impression on the Pima's hold. There was a sprinkling of shots, then a whirl of the wind brought sand up over them. Blinding eyes filling mouth and nose. Even the Indian flinched from that, and Drew managed to tear loose. He rolled down the grade, bringing up against a small tree with a jolt which drove most of the air from his laboring lungs. He pulled his arm up across his face, trying to shield his eyes from the blast which thickened steadily, gasping for air to breathe. In the wind voice the howl, which arose as alarmingly as the stallions screaming.

Stallions? Drew clawed his way up to his knees, but there was no seeing through that murk to where Shiloh had been. Then he was on his feet, stumbling along. The big gray must be hidden somewhere. Drew? A figure blundered into him from behind, almost sending him to the ground again. Get down, you fool. Hands clutched at his body, trying to pull him earthward. "'Let me go. Shiloh.' "'Get down.' Anse's whole weight struck him, and he fell, the Texan sprawling with him. It was only then that he heard the splatter of rifle fire, and understood that they were in the middle of an exchange of lead slug. "'Keep down, Anse,' his voice, ragged with anger, snapped the command into Drew's ears. "'What in thunder you trying to do?

You've gone completely loco, amigo.' Walking right out to get yourself shot like them bullets was nothing but pecans or something like. For the first time, Drew realized what he had done, blown Rennie's carefully planned traps sky-high. His shot at the Pinto must have been warning enough for the fugitives. But why were they trying to make a fight of it now, when the cut-and-run would have been the smartest move? Unless, having seen only one man, they believed he was alone. He tried to rub the dust from his eyes and think coherently, but all that was in the forefront of his mind was that last sight of Shiloh following the Pinto to battle. All right, Drew shifted in Anse's hold. It's all right.

Not that it was, but at least that was the best way he could express his return to reason, and the Texan appeared to understand, for his grip loosened. The dust. Which had blown up an opaque curtain, dropped as quickly. They lay together on the far side of the ridge, but the space below was empty. They saw no men, no battling horses, nothing. They figh-tailed it, someone called from the crest of the ridge. I tell you, I got one of them. He's over between those two bushes. He pulled up to take up that fellow running, and went out of the saddle. Other man got his horse and lit out. Drew stood up. "'Where are you going now?' Anst demanded. "'Where do you think?' the Kentuckian answered dully, after Shiloh.

He went on foot down the slope, across the open, where the Gray had unseated his rider, and turned to take up the Pinto's challenge. Since the horses were no longer in sight, there was only one way they could have gone—to the east. Drew was in the open when another of those wild sand-and-dust flurries caught him. Buffeted here and there, staggering, his arm up over his face. He was driven by its force until he brought up against a rock wall. With that as a guide, he kept on stubbornly, because once more he had heard the scream of the Pinto. In triumph? Drew shivered under a thrust of fear which left him sick. He was sure that that murderous red-and-white devil had finished off Shiloh. Along the wall, keep going.

The dust was thinning again. Drew's hand was on the colt Topham had supplied. The Spencer lay back on the ridge, but if any kind of fortune favored him now, he was going to shoot the Pinto, if it was the last thing he ever did. There was a clear space ahead once more. The sullen gray sky gave only dulled light, but enough to see by. Drew had heard many stories of the fury of the stallion battle. And he had seen fearsome scars ridging the hides of two of the ranged studs. But actually witnessing, such a battle shook him. Teeth, hoofs, blood on Shiloh's shoulder and flanks, a strip of flesh dangling. But Drew saw that the pinto was marked too. The wild horse was trying for a final throat grip, and Shiloh was on the defensive, running, wheeling to kick, once getting home, on the pinto's ribs.

So that the spotted horse squealed with pain. Shiloh had a torn ear and a gash open on his neck. The two battlers twisted and turned in a mad fury of movement. Drew edged on, cold ready. But the fire now was impossible. The pintos hoofs crashed against the saddle, and Shiloh gave ground. With a scream of triumph, the wild one's head snaked out, teeth ready. To set on the larger horse's throat. Hopelessly, Drew shot. It was all he could do. The white and red head tossed. Shiloh had wrenched back. The pinto drove against the gray and crashed down. It lay kicking as the larger horse hit out with forefeet, bringing them heavily down on the pinto. The pinto let out a cry of rage and pain that seemed to startle even Shiloh.

The gray backed away from his writhing enemy and stood shivering, his head outstretched, nostrils distended. Drew fired for the second time, and the helpless kicking was stilled. Shiloh moved, limping. Blood matted with dust, stained his coat, making him almost as red and white as the rain stud. Drew holstered the colt and went to his horse, crooning softly as he caught one of the chewed and broken reins. He was trying to examine what seemed to him terrible wounds when Shiloh started naim. The Kentuckian looked back. Anse and Rennie, with Teodoro and Chino bringing up the rear, were coming. The young Mustanger went to look down at the pinto. He is dead. That was an observation rather than a question.

Teodoro knelt in the dust, drew his knife, and cut loose strands of the long mane hair. I shot him. Drew was more intent on Shiloh's wounds. He was killing Shiloh. He pushed back the thought that, although his horse was still on his feet, the Pinto might have killed him after all. Except for horses ripped by shell fire in battle, Drew had never seen any wounds such as these. He was deadly afraid that those two bullets had not really saved the stud. Let's have a look, Chino. Bring my saddlebags. Hunt Rennie was beside Drew. "'Can you lead him back to the waterhole?' he asked. "'See if he'll walk.' Somehow they did it. Drew and Ants, Rennie and Teodoro. They coaxed, led, supported Shiloh when they could, and brought him to the waterhole.

And then they worked to stop the weakening flow of blood. Drew kept the young horse quiet, while Rennie stitched up the worst of the tears. "'He'll do.' Rennie washed his hands. Can't move him for some time, though. He must have given a good account of himself, meeting that murderer for the first time. Lucky. Sir? Drew found it difficult to face Rennie. As his anxiety over the horse's condition had faded, he had had time to think of something beyond his own affairs. I want to say thanks. He got that out in a rush before he added the admission he must make. I spoiled your plans to take Kitchell. Rennie's dark eyes held his as they had always been able to do. Then Drew had the odd sensation that the two of them were all alone in a place not bound by space or time.

Don't say you're sorry. If you did, I wouldn't believe you. You made the move you had to. If it had been Oro out there, I would have done the same. Drew responded to that impulsively. You're generous, sir. His father's black brows drew together in a slight frown. Generous? No, that's the truth. As for losing Kitchell, we may not have. Those who got away have Grayfeather Nye and others on their trail, and I do not think they will find such hunters easy to fool. Also, we have a prisoner. Don Cazar's acceptance of their failure was so placid that Drew was led to make a wild guess. Not Kitchell himself. Rennie smiled. No, we weren't that lucky. You must have had the lion's share of that commodity here today.

We have a Mexican, name unknown. He was shot down while trying to pick up the rider Shiloh got rid of, who just might have been Kitchell. But this prisoner may be moved to tell us about the three who got away. If these windstorms keep up, they could powder over the trail, and the boys will need help. The Mexican, his shoulder bandaged, was propped against the saddle they had taken from Shiloh. He stared at them sullenly, his gaze finally centering on Don Cazar, when they took places opposite him. "'Some of that coffee for him, Chino,' Rennie called. Herrera bought over a tin cup from the fire now blazing. As the Mexican took it awkwardly with his left hand, still watching Rennie glassily over the brim, The latter used fluent Spanish, only a word or two of which Drew understood.

The man grunted, and then was assailed by Chino in a hotter flow of his native tongue, until Rennie silenced the vaquero's outburst with a wave of hand and spoke again. Drew sniffed the aroma of the bacon Donnelly was frying, his stomach protesting plaintively. "'What are they saying?' he whispered to Ants. Old man pointed out nice and plain what the Mex is in for, lest he speaks up. This hombre, Rennie thinks maybe he don't run regular with Kitchell. More than likely, he came up from the South. Could be to guide the gang back there someplace. If the Mex can prove that, the old man promises to talk for him with the law. So far, he ain't said nothing much in answer. They ate. The prisoner's round face expressed surprise when Rennie had him provide it with an equal share.

He sucked his greasy fingers avidly after he had wolfed down his portion. A moment later he asked a question of his own. Rennie replied, nodding vigorously, as if to make a scent more emphatic. Anse translated. The mechs wanted to know if the old man meant what he said about talking up to the law. If so, He may loosen his jaw some. I'd say, if he's a guide from down there, he wouldn't be too set on covering for Kitchell. Not when that might mean getting his own neck stretched. Yeah, now he's beginning to run over at the lip. The prisoner did loose a flood of words. Renian Chino listening intently. Donnelly coming to stand behind the others. Drew guessed by his changing expression that the Anglo rider The Mexican was as much at home in Spanish as ants.

The Kentuckian regretted his own ignorance. The few words he had picked up along the trail from Texas certainly were no help now. The Mexican wiped his good hand up and down the front of his worn jacket, and then smoothed a patch of soil. On it he drew lines and explained each of them, much as Hilario Triffin had done for the horse hunters days earlier. "'What's he sayin' now?' Drew demanded advance. That it's true, he was sent to guide Kitchell south. That train of horses and loot was the gang's prime pickin's. Some of it was to grease their way in with this hombre's patron. Don't know who he is, some ex-general of such. Kitchell, he rode behind because he had waited for a gringo to meet him.

They was making up time when they heard the fighting going on in the pass. Kitchell headed back here to fill canteens. The mechs was going to guide him south by another trail, one he knows. He's laying it out for the old man now. It's a pretty rough one. They have to take it slow. Could be we could catch up before Kitchell makes it, especially since he don't have this mechs leading him now. When it was necessary, Rennie could move fast. He was on his feet, giving orders almost before Ants had finished the translation. Their party was to be split in two. Drew and Ants were to stay with the wounded Mexican and Shiloh, and prepare to defend the waterhole if the outlaws made a second attempt to come in.

The rest of them would ride for an already designated rendezvous point, where they would meet the party sent to trace the fugitives. "'Why do I stay, sir?' Anse protested, when Don Cazar had finished. "'You can tend that arm better on the ground than in the saddle.' "'Ain't no hurt there any more.' Anse hurriedly pulled it from the sling. "'Anyways, that ain't my shootin' hand neither.' But one look at Hunt Rennie's face reduced him to muttering. Drew watched their preparations quietly. Then he gathered up two canteens and filled them at the waterhole. Went back to loop their carry straps over Hunt Rennie's saddle horn. Anse had a bad arm, so it was right that he should not go chasing hell for leather over rough country.

But true Rennie, he was left because he was useless in another way. He was a man who could not be depended upon, who had sprung their trap because he cared more for a horse than he did for the success of Rennie's mission. And in a way Hunt Rennie... It was perfectly just in that judgment. If it were all to do over again, Drew knew he would make exactly the same choice. Shiloh was his, about the only good thing he had ever possessed, or might ever have in the future. If, in order to keep Shiloh, he had to give up what he knew now was a very vague dream, he would surrender the dream every time. Although he knew that was the truth, The Kentuckian was desperately unhappy, as he made a lengthy business of adjusting the canteens.

About the worst words one could ever speak or think were, too late. This was all too late. Twenty years too late. They might have had something good together, he and Hunt Rennie. Now it was too late. As Drew heard the crunch of boots on gravel close behind him, he swung around. Full canteens, he blurted out. And then, ashamed of his own confusion, he forced himself to look straight at his father. Good luck, sir. We'll need it. I'm leaving you, Jose. He'll do some prowling. Wouldn't do for you to be jumped by Apaches. If we don't come back in three or four days, and Shiloh's able to travel, you take the Mexican and head back to the stronghold. Understand? I mean that. Yes, sir. Drew had lost his right to protest.

Lost at the instant he had betrayed their ambush. Now he turned quickly and hurried to where Shiloh stood. The last thing he wanted to see was Hunt Rennie ride away. Ants kicked earth over the fire when they were gone. No use showing smoke, he remarked, and Drew readily agreed. The horses, with the exception of Shiloh, were hobbled and allowed the restricted freedom of the pocket-sized meadow. Running back from the waterhole, Anse and Drew divided the night into two-hour watches. Don't see how, as they'd be fool enough to try chewing back on their trail again, though Anse commented, They need water. According to what this guide of theirs says, they'll need it doubly bad before they've finished that road of his.

They might just be crazy enough to try here. Men have gotten away with tricks such as that before. "'Drew. Ants was only a shadow among shadows. A voice out of the dark now. You've made up your mind about what you're going to do when this is all over?' "'Pull out. California, maybe. I don't know.' "'Sure you don't want to stay?' "'No.' Drew put explosive emphasis into his reply. "'A man can be too stubborn and stiff-necked for his own good.' "'A man has to do what he has to do,' Drew snapped. "'I'm turning in.' Give me the nudge when it's time. He rolled in a blanket, settled himself with his colt close to hand, and lay gazing up into the cloudy sky. What was the matter with him, anyway? All he had to do was to stick to his decision, and that was the best one for him.

Resolutely, he closed his eyes and tried to will his mind to blank himself into slumber. Drew. Before his eyes were fairly open, His one hand was reaching for the colt, only to meet a numbing blow on the wrist. The Kentuckian rolled in instinctive reaction, and a second, body-jarring stroke caught him in the ribs. He was left gasping, still not fully aware of what had happened. "'All right, you, on your feet!' A hand hooked in the collar of his coat to jerk him up. Somehow Drew did find his feet and stood bent over. His hands to his bruised side, breathing in small, painful gasps. A rib had either been broken in that assault, or it was cracked. There were two, three, four figures moving in the moonlight.

Then the one fronting him turned, and he saw the face clearly. Shannon. Only three of them. Benito and these two. One of the others reported. How's Benito? There was authority in that inquiry. But it came from the one man, who kept well back in the shadows. Got him a old shoulder. Able to ride? Don't know, sir. He'd better be. We need him to find Gravero. These two we don't need. That's where you're wrong, Colonel. This here's about the best cover we could get us now, Shannon laughed. Mr. Drew Rennie. Come out of Kentucky to find us Pa. Touching story, ain't it? Real touching. Like something out of a book. Well, does his Pa find us? His sonny boy'd be really handy now, wouldn't he? You have a point, Shannon.

We'll take him. And the other one, Colonel, sir? Kitchell, if Kitchell that shadow was, came out into the moonlight. He wore the gray shell jacket of a Confederate cavalryman, and the light glinted on the cords of a field officer's hat. Who are you, boy? He faced to the left. And Drew looked in the same direction. Anse stood there, the barrel of a colt pressed against him just above the belt line. Anse and Kirby. Shannon laughed again. Another big man. Says he rode with General Forrest. That true, Kirby? You were one of General Forrest's command? It's true, Anse drawed. Means nothing now. The war's long gone, hombre. "'Maybe it's over back east, not here.' "'You stayed to the end, boy?' "'Yankees took me prisoner before that.' "'Sergeant Wayne?' "'Yes, sir,' Anse's captor responded.

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Drew lunged and then reeled back as Shannon laid the barrel of his colt alongside the Kentuckian's head. He was half-dazed from the blow, but he managed to get out his protest. You murderin' butcher! Gerby ain't dead. He'll just have a sore head tomorrow. Kitchell returned. As the man he called Sergeant Wayne straightened up from the Texan's crumpled form. And you, you keep a civil tongue in your head when you're addressing a superior officer. Shannon, no more of that. The order stayed a second blow. Ought to shut him for real, sir. No, not a man who rode with General Forrest. Kitchell hesitated, and then added, We'll be long gone before he wakes. Tie this one in the saddle. If he can't hang on by himself.

You might be right, Shannon, about him having his uses in the future. Say, Colonel, this here gray horse, he got himself all hurt it bad. Can't know how. Go long with us. When I should shoot him. The whinny came from the meadow where they had left the horses. No, leave him. Won't do Kirby any good, and that's a fine horse. Might just see him again some day. Sergeant. You fill all the canteens. Take any supplies you find here. Then we'll move out." Drew, his wrists corded to the saddle horn, both ankles lashed to the stirrups, swayed in the saddle, as Shannon took the reins of his horse and led it along. The pain in his head and the agony in his side, resulting from even the most shallow breaths, brought on a kind of red mist, which shut off most of the surrounding night.

He had no idea how the outlaws had managed to jump the camp. And who was the extra man with them now? Only three had escaped the horse-fight, but four rode in the present party. He could not think straight. It was all he could do to will himself to hold on and ride. Drew was thirsty, so thirsty. His tongue was a cottony mass in his mouth. The day was light and sunny now, and they were single filing. Through a region of bright, colored, rock-wind-worn into pinnacles, spires, and mesas. There was no water, no green of living thing. Just rock and sun, and the terrible need for a drink. Maybe he moaned. Drew could not be sure. He saw the man riding ahead turn in the saddle. Blue eyes the man had, with no honest life in them.

Once before the Kentuckian... Had seen eyes such as those. It had been in a cabin, a cabin back in Tennessee, in the dead of winter. The young bushwhacker, wearing Union blue, with her murderous eyes and his boyish face, had watched Drew with the same incurious glance which held nothing of human kind. Shannon the bushwhacker, two of the same killer breed, but to recognize that no longer mattered. Nothing mattered save water. His mount stopped. Drew looked dully at the ground. Then his attention shifted to the man standing beside his horse. "'Down with you, fella.' Gray jacket, torn and threadbare. Yet gray. Drew frowned. Sergeant Rennie, Buford Scouts. He tried to identify himself to this strange Confederate, but the words that got out were a thick mumble.

Then somehow he was on the ground. And the man was holding a canteen to his mouth, dribbling Blessed Liquid over that choking cotton. Drew drank. Sergeant Rennie must report General Buford. He was able to talk better now. What's he sayin'? Somethin' about General Buford. Don't know who he is. Buford? Buford wrote with Forrest. Those words were spoken by a different voice, sharper, better educated. Drew opened his eyes, and for the first time actually saw the men he had been traveling with. The officer, who was maybe in his mid-thirties, had a beard trimmed to a point and eyes half sunk in his head, and Shannon, he had half a grin on his lips as he stared down, enjoying what he saw when he surveyed Drew.

The one Kitchell called Sergeant Wayne was a big fellow, even though he was thinned down. He had a square sort of face, jawed too heavy for the rest of it. Then Drew's eyes came to the last man and stopped.

To the first three there was a uniformity. The remnants of military training still clung to them. But this shrunken figure, with a wild gray beard, watery bloodshot eyes, a matted thatch of hair, on which a broken rimmed hat perched ragged and filthy clothing. "'Not gonna haul the mechs much farther, you ain't,' observed the scarecrow, with a touch of relish in the relaying of bad news. "'He's out of his head now. "'Gonna be clean out of his skin come sundown.' "'All right,' said Kitchell. "'We'll camp here, in that shade,' his gesture indicated, "'some point beyond Drew's range of vision.' "'They're gonna be sniffing long right behind us,' the sergeant said, dubiously. "'You're forgetting.' We've got a sunny boy here.

Shannon loomed over Drew. He'll buy us out. Maybe from Rennie, but not from them Yankee troopers. I told you, Shannon lost his grin. The Yanks ain't gonna come all the way down here. There's too much pointing in the other direction. That is, if you as good as you said you was, Lutterfield. The old man grinned in turn, widely set yellow tooth stubs, showing ragged. "'Ain't never failed you yet, boy. Old Amos Lutterfield, he's got em' those what believe what he says like it was holy writ. He sure has. Them troopers who go poundin' down the Sonora Road, huntin' what never was, till they drop men and horses all along. Then Nahata and his bucks will tickle em' up a bit, and they'll forget there was anything else to hunt.' Drew lay in the position where they had dumped him, His hands still tied, the ropes on his ankles now knotted together.

Had the season been high summer, they would have baked in this rock slit, but it was still uncomfortably warm. He heard a low moaning, and saw Kitchell and Lutterfield bending over the Mexican. It was plain that the wounded man had suffered from his enforced ride. Sometime later, the Kentuckian was pulled into a sitting position. His hands loosened. He was allowed to feed himself, but the carny tasted like wood splinters when he chewed it. Not much like the range, Shannon asked him. Don't worry, none. It won't last long. Ranny, no, it won't. You did take my papers. I sure did. You thought I was clean out of my senses back there in the Jacks when that fool Texan called out your name, didn't you now?

Well, I wasn't, and what he said... Sure made me want to know a little more, seeing as how Hunt Rennie might well be my Pa. He owed me a Pa, you know. My real Pa was killed getting him out of prison. I didn't want no drifters cutting in on what was rightly mine, in a manner of speaking, so I just waited my chance to get at that belt of yours, found what I wanted, and that sort of made up my mind. Colonel Kitchell here. He wanted me to go south with him. They have them a war going on down there. A man can always get ahead in wartime. Does he like soldierin'? But I weren't sure about goin' till I found out as how I might just be pushed out anyway. Why did you think that? Hunt Rennie's always treated you as a real son, hasn't he?

Like a real son? Like his ideal of a son, you mean? Work hard, and having books pushed at me, always jawin' about education. And being a gentleman. Do this, don't do that. This is right, and that's wrong. Being soft with engines. Lord, I was sick of being his kind of son when I went off with Howard. Rennie wasn't even ready to fight the war proper. Big man here, afraid to try where he wasn't. Rightly, he was sick of me, too. Only his precious duty wouldn't let him say so. But as long as he didn't know about you... He'd try. He'd keep on trying. I had me a good place to hold up on the range. With you there, he mightn't hold on to his patience. First off, I thought, I might settle you permanent.

Then you got took up by Bayliss, Shannon laughed. That sure was a switch. Captain thought you was Kitchell's man, when he should have looked a little closer in a couple of other places. But you were shot by Kitchell's men. It was a crease by the shotgun rider on the stage we tried to stop. Boys brought me in close to town and dumped me on the road, gave us a chance to make up another tale to fool Bayless. Me, I been ridin' with Colonel Kitchell since 64. We came west from Kansas, long the end of that year. The Colonel, he saw what might be done out here, where it's a long ride between sheriffs And the Army had to think about Indians most of the time. What Army there still was in the territory?

Me and old man Lutterfield, we could help the Colonel. Better by not riding with him, but for him, as you might say. And now you're going to Mexico? In time ready, in time. The Colonel's thinking out some plans. Don Cazar, he was too lucky at the pass. You're not going to get back those horses or mules. Or what they were packing, Drew said. We'll see, we'll see. Certainly Shannon's confidence was in no wise shaken. The Colonel, he didn't want to call in Nahata and his Bucks. Now maybe he'll have to. What we need is a layup till we can make some good plans, and Benito, he'll arrange that. If he lives. Drew closed his eyes wearily. His face was one bruised ache where Shannon's blow had landed. And his side was constant pain.

"'You'll see,' Shannon promised. "'We got us a big ace in the hole. The Range Boys don't know. That's how I'm with Kitchell, not yet. That's how we took you so easy back to the waterhole. I just rode up to Jose, got that there Pima listening to me, to Lutterfield sneaked up and put him out of business.' Lutterfield, he don't look much, but he was running in this country with the Indians thirty years ago. He's got the Apaches listening to him good, and I can talk us through the posse, maybe even into the stronghold later. You're a clever man, Shannon, Drew commented dryly. And you're too free with that lip. Drew's head rocked under a stinging slap, which made fiery wheels of pain roll in his head.

He must have been sent very close to the edge of unconsciousness for a moment or two. That's enough, Johnny, said Sergeant Wayne. The Colonel says to keep him ready to move. You bat him around like that don't do no good. So Topham had been right. Johnny Shannon was Kitchell's man. Not that it mattered now. Even if, by some miracle, Drew could get away from this pack of wolves, he had no idea of where he was or which way to go. One man alone and lost in this country faced death, certain as the bullet Johnny Shannon had already loaded for him. There was only one thing. He was still alive, and as long as a man lived, he had hope. Nye and Grayfeather had trailed this bunch from the waterhole. Perhaps the wind and sandstorms had muddled the tracks.

But Drew still had faith in the Pima, and Rennie's party had followed with the knowledge of the Mexicans' bolt hole to the south. Why, right now, they could have circled ahead, could be waiting for Kitchell again, as they had at the pass. An attack could give him a thin chance of escape. He had best keep his mouth shut and not provoke Shannon, maybe Fane being more helpless than he was. The outlaws had difficulty in getting the Mexicant on his horse when they were ready to move on in the evening. Drew, seeing the man's swollen face, his half-closed, set eyes, thought he was still in high fever, probably no longer conscious. Ought to have sense enough to know Benito might not last out the night.

But it was plain. They were now pushed for time. They had been on the way for a while before Drew noticed that Lutterfield was not with them. His reappearance was far more dramatic than his going. A horse clattered up from behind at a pace not keeping with a rough footing, and the rider drew level with Kitchell. Got him a couple of them Pima scouts sniffing the trail, and some of Rennie's men with him, too. It ain't true. Shannon's protest was loud. I see'd him bright and clear. Most up to where we stopped last. If you want to sit around waiting for him, do it. I'm clearing out. Ain't nobody can say Amos Lutterfield was here. Nobody but us, Shannon said coldly. Lutterfield? Even Drew's head came around at that.

The moonlight was silver-bright on the barrel of the colt in Kitchell's grasp. Sergeant, suppose you take precautions to ensure the continual company of this man. I don't intend Lutterfield to let you curry favor by pointing out our trail to the Army. I'd answer your proposed assertion as it deserves, with a bullet. But a body on our trail would provide an excellent signpost for any pursuers. The rope which had been coiled on Wayne's saddle swung in a perfect loop and tightened about Lutterfield, pinning his arms to his side. His protest and roars of anger went unheeded, and he rode on as much a prisoner as drew. "'Move out,' Kitchell motioned with the colt. "'Those two peaks ahead,' according to Benito, "'the cut we want is between them.

Across that we're free.' The Army can't follow us into Mexico. But Kishel still kept to a cautious pace. The risk of losing a mount was one he dared not run. Drew debated the idea of booting his own horse from their line of march and trying to ride for it. He need only to hide out and wait for the troopers to pick him up. If he had had hands free and been able to move in the saddle to dodge bullets, he might have tried it. The night wore on, and Drew was driven to admiring the outlaw's nerve. Kitchell did not hurry. In fact, he followed the old cavalry custom of resting mounts at regular intervals, seeing that each of the weary horses had nostrils and mouth wiped out with a dampened cloth. At the third halt, he allowed them a drink of water before a smaller portion was given the men.

Whatever else the outlaw might be, He was an experienced field commander. They had the peaks looming above them when Benito gave a gurgling gasp and stiffened, tall in the saddle, before he looped into a limp, dangling bundle of a man. Kitchell called a halt. He dismounted to examine the Mexican before he beckoned to Wayne. He's dead. We'll need his horse. Put him down behind those rocks over there, Sergeant. "'You know where we're going, sir?' Shannon asked. "'Enough to get us across the border. We can take cover there, make some other arrangements. Benito's Patron would not welcome us with empty pockets. Hurry, Sergeant.' "'Only got two hands, sir. Wayne had freed the body of the Mexican, but was having trouble dragging it into the appointed hiding place.' "'You help him, Shannon.

We have no time to waste.' "'What about him?' Shannon's thumb indicated Drew. I don't see how he can get away. Hurry up. Johnny dismounted with visible reluctance, but not before he blasted Drew's hopes by looping the reins of the captive's horse around his own saddle horn. And in addition, Kitchell stood there with drawn gun. They had disposed of the body, and Johnny was back when a sudden command boomed out of the air. Freeze. Shannon leaped. Putting his horse between him and the open. He had the reins of Drew's mount in his hand. Kitchell went into half a crouch, and was startled into snapping his shot in the general direction of the voice. Drew sat statue still. It was only too easy, in this tricky light, bright though the moon was, to see one of the men those ahead were hunting.

He had no desire to stomp a bullet now, but Johnny had ideas of his own. Under his direction, Drew's horse broke to the left. There were shots, and Drew flattened himself as best he could on the saddle horn, but not before he saw Kitchell spin around in a crazy dance and fall. All right, all right, Shannon's voice was broken, ragged, almost as if he were sobbing. You ain't got me yet, not by sight, you ain't. A knife flashed, cutting the ties which kept Drew's left boot to the stirrup. The Kentuckian was dragged down and held while the knife sliced again. Two more shots, then silence. Drew lay face to the earth. The fall from the saddle had brought him down on his injured side, and he was in too great pain to take much interest in his surroundings.

Then he was dragged, pulled over on his back. "'I got Drew Rennie here.' The call was one of desperation. "'Yeah, hear that? Drew Rennie.' The old man's son. I read them letters he had. It's the truth. You come and take me, and he gets a knife clean across his throat. I want me a horse water and an open road south. Do I get him, or does Mr. High and Mighty Rennie get him a son who ain't speaking no more? Johnny, is that you, Johnny? He sure is. Me, Johnny Shannon. And I'm riding out of here free and clear. "'Or else I'll do what I said. I mean that, Rennie. I surely do mean it. You lose me, and you get your real son. Good bargain, ain't it?' "'You won't ride free for long, Johnny. You know that.' "'I can have me a pretty good try, Rennie.

This here's my country, and I know it well. Better than any but your men. Give me your word, and I'll go.' Drew tried to fight back the darkness, which was closing in. A dark stronger than mere night shadows. Give him what he wants. The words echoed hollowly. Shannon drew a deep breath. He laughed softly, and Drew made a great effort. He could see the bulk of the other's body, poised between him and an opening between the rocks, which must give on the pocket in which the outlaws had been surprised. Johnny was set like a runner, ready on the mark. The Kentuckian. Could hear the scrape of horses' hoofs on stone. They must be bringing out a mount, keeping Hunts part of the bargain. Only, Drew suddenly knew Johnny was going to keep him.

He saw the gun hand shift against the rock. Johnny was taking aim into the pocket. Why? But trusting the Rennie's word, he would have a slim chance, so why spoil it by some treachery? All right, Johnny, it's ready for you. Now you get them hands up, Rennie. Sort of guessed you'd come yourself. I'm gettin' out all right. Do I take you along? There ain't gonna be no trailin' at all. Do they want Don Cazar to keep on breathing regular? Get them hands up, high. With all the force he could summon, Drew kicked at Johnny's grouching body. Shannon cried out. There was a shot. Then Johnny cried again. This time with a choke. Cutting off the word, as he arched convulsively against the boulder. In the half-light, the arrow projecting from between his shoulder blades stood out with unnatural clarity.

Arrow? Drew's wits worked slowly. The arrow must have come from one of the Pimas. Rennie had been covered, after all. So he had not believed too much in Johnny's promises. You there, kid. Someone came through the rock gap. Hey! He's here, all right, but he's hurt. Nye's grasp on him brought the pain in Drew's side to an agony he could no longer stand. He was crushed down into darkness. Ribs are cracked, not broken. That's something to be thankful for. All right. You can let him down now. Give me that pad and some water. I want to see how much damage there is here. Drew tried to turn his head away from the touch. on his swollen cheek and jaw, but he was held steady to endure it. Best we can do for the present.

You can leave the rest of me, nigh. Drew opened his eyes. There was a fire nearby, but the flickering of the flames concealed more than they revealed of the face above him. He found the words to say, rather than ask. You knew before Johnny told you knew. Teodoro told me yesterday. I didn't lie. Johnny took the papers. He admitted it at the last. But why? Why didn't you come to me? Put muddled feelings into words. Attempt to explain what he did not fully understand himself. It was hard even to try. But you always faced up to the hard things. Wanted to know if it was right for both of us. Had to know that. If you'd be welcome. That's it. Well, what did you decide? What he had decided hours, days ago.

Too late, but somehow that came out differently than he intended, as a question rather than a statement. No, the answer was uttered flatly, in a voice you did not argue with. Suppose we begin all over again. You willing to try? Better say, are you, sir? Drew had whirling memories. Of all that had gone wrong, since he had tried things his way. Then he saw a smile on his father's face. Bringing him in. In where? To what? Suddenly he was eager to find out. "'Took the long way around to get home, didn't you?' Aunt Rennie asked softly. "'I think we can make it worth the effort. Now suppose you try some sleep. You've a pair of cracked ribs, which'll have to be favored for a while.' I think you've been too knocked about lately to make good sense.

There'll be plenty of time." Plenty of time? Drew blinked. Yes, sir. Obediently, he shut his eyes. A blanket was pulled up, tucked in about him. For a moment, a warm hand rested protectingly on his shoulder, and that reassuring pressure carried over with him into sleep, as if what he had long sought without recognizing was his. Never to be lost again.

Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas.

queue_music Chapters 18