Space Pioneers
Space Service
1
Even the coming of an autumn 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 Tubacca! 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 Tubacca. 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 race tracks 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 his match was the mare on the lead rope, plainly a
lady of family, perhaps of 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, the carcass beneath the pack a bone
rack, all sharp angles and dusty hide. Looks, however, as his master could
have proven, were deceiving.
"Soooo—" The rider’s voice was husky from swallowing trail grit, but it
was tuned to the soothing croon of a practiced horse trainer. "Sooo—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 a 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 mare voiced her complaint, and the rider turned to the
gentleman. "There is a livery stable here, suh?" 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 stallion to
mare. "Yes. Quickest way is down this alley. Tobe 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, Croaker, 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 mare’s distended sides.
"I’d say, young fellow, you didn’t git her here a mite too soon, no,
siree. She’s due right quick. Carryin’ a blood foal, I’m thinkin’—"
"Yes. How soon? Tonight?"
Tobe Kells made a quick examination. The mare, after a first nervous
start, stood easy under his sure and gentle hands. "Late, maybe. First
foal?"
"Yes." Her owner hesitated and then added, "You give me a hand with her?"
"You bet, son. She’s a pretty thing, an’ she’s been a far piece, I’d say.
Now you looky here, boy—you sure look like you could take some curryin’
an’ corn fodder under your belt too. You git over to th’ Four Jacks.
Topham’s got him a Chinee cookin’ there who serves up th’ best danged grub
in this here town. Fill up your belly an’ take some ease. Then if we do
have this little lady gittin’ us up tonight, you’ll be ready for it. I’ll
see t’ th’ stud an’ th’ mule. That colt’s not a wild one." Kells surveyed
Shiloh knowingly. "No, I seed he was gentle-trained when you come in." He
ran his hand down Shiloh’s shoulder, touched 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 the time when he should begin building up
the background one Drew Kirby must present to Tubacca, 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."
"Wal, sure, Kirby, Tobe Kells is a man o’ his word. Iffen there’s any
reason to think you’ll be needed, I’ll send Callie along for you. Callie!"
At Kells’ 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 th’ purtiest things?" he inquired of the stable at large.
"’Bout th’ best stock we’ve had here since th’ last time _Don_ Cazar
brought in a couple o’ hissen. Where’ll I put your plunder, mister?" He
was already loosing Croaker’s pack. "You be stayin’ over to th’ Jacks?"
Drew glanced up at the haymow 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 want to be handy like. Stow that
there gear up above, Callie, an’ don’t you drop nothin’. Rest yourself
easy, son. These here hosses is goin’ to be treated jus’ like th’ good
stuff they is."
"Croaker, 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...."
Kells 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. The liveryman knew the signs. This was not the first
veteran to drift into Tubacca; he wouldn’t be the last either. Seems like
half of both them armies back east didn’t want to go home an’ sit down
peaceful like now that they was through wi’ shootin’ at each other. No,
siree, a right big herd o’ ’em was trailin’ out here. An’ he thought he
could put name to the color of coat this young’un had had on his back,
too. Only askin’ more than a man volunteered to tell, that warn’t neither
manners nor wise.
"He gits th’ best, too, Kirby." Kells shifted a well-chewed tobacco cud
from one cheek to the other.
He could trust Kells, Drew thought. A 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 liveryman’s suggestions. 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 the jerky, corn meal, 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
Tubacca.
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 a solitaire game. And at one side a round-faced
Mexican in ornate, south-of-the-border clothing held a guitar across one
plump knee, now and then plucking absent-mindedly at a single string as he
stared raptly 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 a silvery blond, and he had dark, deeply set eyes. "I’m
Reese Topham, 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 on 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 to his silvery 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 spring. Hamilcar!" His hand met table top in a sharp slap.
The Mexican jerked fully awake and looked around. From the back of the
cantina emerged a middle-aged Negro.
"Yes, Mistuh Reese, suh?"
"Customer for you, Hamilcar. I would judge he wants the full treatment.
This, Mister Kirby, is the best barber, valet, and general aid to comfort
in town, the sultan of our bath. Hamilcar, Mister 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 Hamilcar 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 the 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 unkempt head
vigorously and allowed himself to forget all worries, wallowing in the
sheer joy of being really clean again.
Hamilcar had produced a clean shirt and drawers from the saddlebags, even
managing 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 re-dressed except for his gun belt when he heard a
voice call from the next cubicle.
"Ham—Ham! You git yourself in here, ’fore I skin that black hide—"
"Johnny!" Topham’s voice cut through the other’s thickened 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 the
Kentuckian’s business.
"Yore hat, suh." Hamilcar 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 any one gittin’ 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 war—save a tough body and a mind he hoped was as
hard.
"Mighty pretty hat trimmin’, that, suh," Hamilcar admired.
"Mighty big man wore it once." Drew was still half in the past. "What do I
owe you more’n the thanks of a mighty tired man you’ve turned out brand
new again?" He smiled and was suddenly all boy.
"Foah bits, suh. An’ it was a pleasure to do fo’ a gentleman. It truly
was. Come agin, suh—come, agin!"
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
bushwhackers’ hideout.
On a 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
worn those spurs into church. And Boyd Barrett had sold his horse the same
day to buy back those silver bits because he 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 still 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 claim 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 Mattock estate, even
though his Kentucky grandfather had left him penniless. He’d made his
choice without hesitation: the colt Shiloh, the mare Shadow, and she bred
to Storm Cloud for what should be a prize foal. 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, _señor_ ... tequila ... whiskee ... food?"
"Food, _señorita_. You see a most hungry man."
She laughed and then frowned anxiously. "Ah, but, _señor_, 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 pobrete_—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 Mexicans 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 Oro Cruz, one of the richest mines in the Tubacca 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 a 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 raced 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 racing. You
aim to stay on in Tubacca?"
"Have to until Shadow can trail again. How’s the prospect for a job?"
"With cattle—horses—teaming?"
"Horses, I guess."
"Well, _Don_ Cazar—Rennie—runs the best _manadas_. You might hit him for
work. He’ll be riding in to meet the wagons. Carmencita, did you bring all
that was left of the supplies?" Topham’s quizzical eyebrows lifted in
greeting to the waitress’s loaded tray. "I’d say, young man, that you are
facing a full-time job now, getting all 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 settlin’
down, ain’t he? That ought to be good news for Rennie."
"One believes in reformations when they are proven by time, _Señor_
Cahill," the man wearing rich but somber Spanish clothing replied.
"It sure must go hard with a man to have his 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 only one button on the tail carries as much poison as a
ten-button one. Rennie ought to cut losses and give that 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_ Reese, his _compadre_ of many
years. Can you not do something?"
"_Don_ Lorenzo, all men have blind spots. And Johnny Shannon is Rennie’s.
Bob Shannon helped free Hunt out of 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 is a great pity he has no child of his own blood. I have seen him
stand here in Tubacca 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
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, a bray out of Croaker.
"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, Mister Kirby. Mister Kells said as to tell you
he’s sleepin’ on a cot in th’ tack room over there, should you be needin’
him." Callie pointed. "Me, I’m beddin’ down in the last stall. I put your
gear up right over here, so’s you can hear if she gits to movin’—"
"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, Mister Kirby! You must be near as shiny as _Don_ Cazar—or Mister
Topham!"
"Shiny?"
Callie laughed. "Silver-shiny! Ain’t too many men as goes round Tubacca
throwin’ out good money thataway. ’Less it’s ringin’ down on th’ bar, or
slidin’ ’cross some table ’cause they found out as how they was holdin’
Jacks against some other fella’s Kings. You want anything—you jus’ holler,
Mister Kirby!"
"Mister?" 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’d been in the army?"
"Well, you wear them two shootin’ irons army style, belted high an’ butt
to front. Must use a flip-hand draw as do all th’ hoss soldiers. Listen,
Mister Kirby, iffen you rode with th’ Rebs, you better keep your lip
buttoned up when th’ Blue Bellies hit town. There’s been a pile of
fightin’ an’ folks is gittin’ mad ’bout it—"
"Blue Bellies?" 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 past 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. An’ Cap’n Bayliss, he don’t take
kindly to Rebs. You see, it’s this way.... Out in th’ breaks there’s a
bunch of Rebs-leastways they claim as how they’s Rebs—still holdin’ out.
They hit an’ run, raidin’ ranches an’ mines; they held up a coach a while
back. An’ so far they’ve ridden rings round th’ cap’n. Now he thinks as
how any Reb blowin’ in town could be one of ’em, comin’ to sniff out some
good pickin’s. So anyone as can’t explain hisself proper to th’ cap’n gits
locked up out at camp till he can—"
"Trifle highhanded, ain’t he?"
"Well, th’ cap’n’s for law an’ order, an’ 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 in 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, Mister Kirby, that’s sure
somethin’, it sure is! Only don’t be sayin’ that round Cap’n Bayliss
neither. He has him a big hate for General Forrest—seems like Bayliss was
a colonel once till th’ General outsmarted him back east. An’ there was a
big smoke-up ’bout it. They cut th’ cap’n’s spurs for him, an’ he ended
th’ war out here. Now he ain’t no patient man; he’s th’ kind as uses his
hooks hard when he’s ridin’.
"You know, you sure can tell a lot ’bout a man when you give a look at his
hoss after he’s come off th’ trail. That there Shiloh colt o’ yours, an’
this here lady hoss, an’ that old mule ... anyone can see as how they’s
always been handled nice an’ easy. They ain’t got no spite ’gainst nobody
as wants to rub ’em down an’ give ’em a feed. But some hosses what git
brung in here—they’s white-eyed an’ randy, does you give ’em a straight
stare. For that there’s always a reason. Mostly you can see what it is
when you look good an’ steady at th’ men who was ridin’ ’em!"
Drew laughed. "Glad I passed your test, Callie. Guess I’ll turn in now.
Been a long day travelin’—"
"Sure thing. An’ from up there you can hear this little old mare, does she
need you."
The Kentuckian’s pack had been hoisted into the mow, and Callie had even
humped up the fragrant hay to mattress his bedroll. A window was open 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 asleep.
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 mare—no—rather the pound of running feet and then a cry....
"No, _señor_, no! _No es verdad_—it is not true! Teodoro, he meant no
harm—!"
Drew scrambled to the window. Out in the alley below, three figures reeled
in the 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 rapped on the stable floor. The
Kentuckian had no idea of the reason for that fight, but he ran out with
the vague notion that an impartial referee was needed.
"You there—what’s goin’ on!" Sergeant Rennie came to life again in the
snapped demand.
The one who fled the quirt 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 sight of the weapon had frozen
them.
The attacker faced Drew directly. He was young and handsome, if you
discounted 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.
"An’ who th’ 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.
That 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
Trinfans—Teodoro and me. Teodoro, he finds _Señor_ Juanito’s purse in the
road, he follows to give it back. He is not a _bandido_—he is not _espía_,
a spy one. We are mustangers. Ask of _Don_ Reese, of _Señor_ Kells. Why,
_Señor_ Juanito, do you say Teodoro spy on you, why you hit him with the
whip?"
"Not thief, not spy!" The boy beside Drew dropped a wealed hand from his
face. "The man who says Teodoro Trinfan is _ladrón_—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.
"An’ jus’ what’s all this smokin’ ’bout?" Kells came out. "You, Shannon,
what’re you doin’ here? Been drinkin’ again, fightin’, too, by th’ look of
you."
"_Señor_ Kells." The girl caught at the older man’s arm. "_Por favor,
señor_, we are not thieves, not spies. We come after _Señor_ Juanito
because he dropped his purse. Then he see Teodoro coming, he not listen—he
beat on him with quirt. You know, we are honest peoples!"
"Now then, Faquita, don’t you git so upset, gal!" She was wailing aloud,
making no effort to wipe away the tears running down her cheeks. "Johnny,
what kinda game you tryin’? You know these kids are straight; them an’
their ol’ man’s come to work th’ Range for wild ones on Rennie’s own
askin’. Takin’ a quirt to th’ kid, eh?" Kells’ voice slid up the scale.
"You sure have yourself a snootful tonight! Now you jus’ walk yourself
outta here on th’ bounce. I’m doin’ th’ sayin’ of what goes on, on my own
property."
"You do a lotta sayin’, 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 accompanying it. "Some men
oughtta put a hobble on their tongues. Sure, I know these young whelps an’
their pa too. Sniffin’ round where they ain’t wanted. An’ mustangers ain’t
above throwin’ a sticky loop when they see a hoss worth it. We ain’t blind
on th’ Range." His head swung a little so he was looking at the girl.
"You’d better hold that in mind, gal. Double R hosses have come up missin’
lately. It’s easy to run a few prime head south to do some moonlight
tradin’ at th’ border. An’ we don’t take kindly to losin’ good stock!"
The boy lunged against Drew’s pinioning arm. "Now he says we are 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 seein’ you. Kinda free with a gun, leastwise at showin’ it. As
quick to back up your play?"
"Try me!" The words came out of Drew 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’d
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 Kells’ sleeve. "It is not true what he
said. Why does he wish to make trouble?"
"Lissen, gal, an’ you, too, Teodoro—jus’ keep clear of Johnny Shannon when
he’s on th’ prod that way. I’ve knowed that kid since he didn’t have
muscle enough to pull a gun ’less he took both hands to th’ job. But he’s
not needin’ any two hands to unholster now. An’ he’s drinkin’ a lot—mean,
ugly drunk, he is. Somethin’ must have riled him good tonight—"
"In the cantina there was a soldier from the camp," Faquita volunteered.
"They call names. He and _Señor_ Juanito fight. _Don_ Reese, he put them
both out in the street. _Señor_ Juanito he falls, drops purse. Teodoro
picks it up, and we follow. When we try to give it back _Señor_ Juanito
yell, ’spy,’ hit with whip. That is the truth, _por Dios_, the truth!"
"Yeah, sounds jus’ like Johnny these days. Him with a snootful an’
somebody yellin’ Reb and Yank. Some men can’t forgit an’ don’t seem to
want to. Johnny sure takes it hard bein’ on th’ losin’ side—turned him
dirt mean. Now, you kids, you stayin’ in town?"
"_Sí._" Faquita nodded vigorously. "With Tía María."
"Then you git there an’ stay clear of Johnny Shannon, _sabe_? No more
trouble."
"_Sí, Señor_ Kells. You, _señor_," 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 warn’t no real trouble ’fore he skinned off to ride with
Howard. Sure he was always a wild one, but no more’n a lotta kids. An’
he’d answer th’ lead rein. ’Course we don’t know what happened to him in
Texas after th’ big retreat th’ Rebs made outta here. Could be he larned a
lot what was no good. Now he sops up whisky when he hits town an’ picks
fights, like he didn’t git his belly full of that in th’ war. You can’t
never tell how a kid’s gonna turn out."
"Hey! Mister Kirby, you better git in here!" Callie hailed from the
stable. "Th’ mare ... 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
his heels near-by watching the process benignly.
"Ain’t she ’bout th’ best-favored filly you ever saw?" he asked. "How come
all your hosses is grays? Shiloh her pa?"
Drew shook his head. "No, her sire’s Storm Cloud. But all that line are
grays."
"This Storm Cloud, he’s a runnin’ hoss?"
"About the runnin’est 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 namin’ 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 and then nodded. "Yeah—Sage. That’s gray an’
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?"
"Mister Kells, he keeps ledgers over in th’ tack room. Got some ink an’ 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 jus’ what hosses bred your hosses?
That’s sure somethin’! Round here we knows a good hoss, but we ain’t
always sure of his pa, not if he’s wild stuff."
"Lots of wild horses hereabouts then?"
"Sure. Some’re jus’ mustangs; other’s good stuff gone wild—run off by th’
’Paches an’ broke loose, or got away from a ’wet hoss’ band—"
"’Wet horse’ band?"
Callie glanced at him a little sharply. "How come you ain’t knowin’ ’bout
’wet hosses’? Heard tell as how they have ’em that same trouble down Texas
way—"
"But I don’t come from the border country."
"Well, Texas sure is a great big piece o’ country, so maybe you don’t know
’bout them river tricks. Wet hosses—they’s hosses what is run off up here,
driven down to th’ border where they’s swapped for hosses what some Mex
_bandidos_ have thrown a sticky loop over. Then th’ Mexes take them Anglo
hosses south an’ sell ’em, where their brands ain’t gonna git nobody into
noose trouble. An’ th’ stolen Mex hosses, they’s drove up here an’ maybe
sold to some of th’ same fellas what lost th’ others. Hosses git
themselves lost ’long them back-country trails, specially if they’s pushed
hard. So them strays join up with th’ wild ones. Iffen a mustanger can
rope him one an’ bring it in ... well, if it’s a good one, maybe so he’ll
git a reward from th’ man what’s lost him. Heard tell that _Don_ Cazar,
he’s set some good rewards on a coupla studs as was run off th’ Range this
summer."
"_Don_ Cazar has good horses?"
"’Bout th’ best in these here parts. He runs ’em on th’ Range th’ old
style—stud an’ twenty—twenty-five mares together in a _manada_, all one
color to a band. They sure is a grand sight: band o’ roans, then one o’
duns, an’ some blacks. He’s got one _manada_ all of grullas. Sells some to
th’ army, drives more clear to Californy. An’ th’ old _Dons_ down in
Sonora come up once in a while to pick them out some fancy saddle stock.
He sure would enjoy seem’ these grays o’ yours. Iffen you ever want to
sell, _Don_ Cazar’d give you top price."
"But I’m not sellin’." Drew folded the piece of paper he had 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’s comin’!" he cried as he ran out.
Drew lingered by Shadow’s box. The filly was resting in the straw, her
match-stick legs folded under her, and the mare was munching the extra
feed of oats the Kentuckian had tipped in for her. He could hear the sound
of other running feet outside. It would seem that all Tubacca 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
Only a well-armed and convoyed set of wagons with a highly experienced and
competent master could dare travel the Apache-infested trails 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 Tubacca 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 the
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 braying 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 glinting 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 serapes 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 riders’ 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 travels
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 his sun-browned face he could pass as a man still in
his late twenties.
But he was older, perhaps a decade older than that, Drew thought. Too high
and prominent cheekbones with slight hollows below them, and a mouth tight
set, made more for strength of will and discipline of feeling than
conventional good looks. Yet his was a face 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!"
"Paugh!" The Mexican spat. "Where is there one Indio who is able to face
_Don_ Cazar on his own ground? The folly of that they learned long ago."
_Don_ Cazar smiled. That 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, Bartolomé 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 that 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 Bartolomé 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 the decision of 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.
Tubacca 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 their 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
horn goblet carved with intricate figures of gods his Anglo eyes did not
recognize. The hum of voices, the bray of mules, the baa-ing and naa-ing
of sheep and goats, kept up a roar to equal surf on a seacoast. Afternoon
was fast fading into evening, but Tubacca, aroused from the post-noon
siesta, was in tumult.
A fighting cock tethered to a cart wheel stretched its neck to the utmost
in an attempt to peck at Drew’s spurs. He laughed, attracted, wrenched out
of his own private world. The smell of spicy foods, of fruit, of animals
and people ... the clamor ... the sights....
Drew rounded one end of a wagon and stepped abruptly into yet another
world and 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
had 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 butt.
Hostiles would not be camping peacefully here in the heart of town. He
could not be facing wild Apaches or Navajos. But they were the first
Indians he had seen this close since he had ridden out of Texas.
"Somethin’ buggin’ you, 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 buckskinned man who had whooped the train into town
that morning.
"Mite quick to show your iron, ain’t you?" There was a chill in the
question, and Drew saw that the long rifle was still held at alert by its
owner.
"Cat-footin’ up on a man ought to make you expect somethin’ of a
reception," Drew countered.
"Yep, guess some men has sure got ’em a bellyful of lead doin’ that." To
Drew’s surprise the other was now grinning. "You huntin’ someone?"
"No, just lookin’ 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.
"Wal, thar’s aplenty to see tonight, right enough. Me—I’m Crow Fenner; I
ride scout fur th’ train. An’ these here—they’re Rennie’s Pimas, what o’
’em is runnin’ th’ trail this trip."
So these were the famous Pima Scouts! No wonder they took their ease in
the Tubacca 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 th’ east, eh?"
"Texas."
"Texas...." Something in the 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 in 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 a 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 trailin’ round
this here country since th’ moon was two-bit size. An’ I ain’t set my
moccasins on all o’ it yet. Thar’s parts maybe even an Injun ain’t seed
neither. You jus’ outta th’ army, son?"
Drew nodded. Apparently he could not escape that part of his past, and
there was no reason to deny it.
"Iffen you be huntin’ a job—_Don_ Cazar, he’s always ready to hire on
wagon guards. Any young feller what knows how to handle a gun, he’s
welcome—"
"Can’t leave Tubacca, at least for now. Have me a mare over in the livery
that just foaled. I’m not movin’ until she’s ready to travel—"
"Must be right good stock," Fenner observed. "Me, I has me a ridin’ mule
as kin smell Apaches two miles off. Two, three times that thar mule saved
m’ skin fur me. Got Old Tar when he turned up in a wild-hoss corral th’
mustangers set over in th’ Red River country—"
"I saw him when you rode into town. Good-lookin’ animal."
Crow Fenner nodded vigorously. "Shore is, shore is. _Don_ Cazar, he’s
partial to good stock—favors Tar, too. Th’ _Don_ has him a high-steppin’
hoss every hoss thief in this here territory’d like to run off. Bright
yaller—"
"Saw that one, too. Unusual colorin’ all right."
"He put a white stud—white as milk—to run with some light buckskin mares
back ’fore th’ war. First colt out of that thar breedin’ was that Oro
hoss. Never got ’nother like him; he’s special. Shows his heels good, too.
They’s gonna race him out on th’ flats tomorrow if anyone is fool ’nough
to say as he has a hoss as can beat Oro. Thar’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-Ariel stock on the track,
Drew doubted. There were unbroken records set on eastern tracks by horses
in Shiloh’s direct blood line. 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 foaled on the Arizona range.
"Yep, we’ll see some race, does anyone turn up with a hoss t’ 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 shod
hoofs.
"Soldiers!" Fenner sniffed. "Wonder what they’s doin’, hittin’ town now.
Wal, that ain’t no hair off m’ skull. Me, I’m gonna git Tar his treat.
Promised him some time back he could have a bait o’ oats—oats an’ salt,
an’ jus’ a smidgen o’ corn cake. That thar mule likes t’ favor his
stomach. Kells, he ought t’ have them vittles put together right ’bout
now. This mare o’ yourn what’s so special, young feller.... Me, I’d like
t’ see a hoss 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 blue coats 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 Cap’n Bayliss. He’s
gittin’ some biggety idear as how it’s up t’ him t’ police this here town.
Does he start t’ crow too loud, _Don_ Cazar or Reese Topham’ll cut his
spurs. Maybe he sets up th’ war shield an’ does th’ shoutin’ back thar in
front o’ all them soldier boys. In this town he ain’t no gold-lace
general!"
"Troops and the town not friendly?" Drew asked.
"Th’ soldiers—they ain’t no trouble. Some o’ ’em have their heads screwed
on straight an’ know what they’s doin’ or tryin’ t’ do. But a lot o’ them
officers now—they come out here wi’ biggety idears ’bout how t’ handle
Injuns, thinkin’ they knows all thar’s t’ be knowed ’bout fightin’—an’
them never facin’ up to a Comanche in war paint, let alone huntin’
’Paches. ’Paches, they know this here country like it was part o’ their
own bodies—can say ’Howdy-an’-how’s-all-th’-folks, bub?’ t’ every lizard
an’ snake in th’ rocks. Ain’t no army gonna pull ’em out an’ make ’em
fight white-man style.
"_Don_ Cazar—he goes huntin’ ’em when they’ve come botherin’ him an’ does
it right. But he knows you think Injun, you live Injun, you eat Injun, you
smell Injun when you do. They don’t leave no more trail than an ant
steppin’ high, ’less they want you should foller them into a nice ambush
as they has all figgered out. Put Greyfeather an’ his Pimas on ’em an’
then leg it till your belly’s near meetin’ your backbone an’ you is all
one big tired ache. Iffen you kin drink sand an’ keep on footin’ it over
red-hot rocks when you is nigh t’ a bag o’ bones, then maybe—jus’
maybe—you kin jump an Apache. Comanches, now, an’ Cheyenne an’ Kiowa an’
Sioux ride out to storm at you—guns an’ arrows all shootin’—wantin’ to
count coup on a man by hittin’ him personal. But th’ ’Pache ain’t wastin’
hisself that way. Nope—git behind a rock an’ ambush ... put th’ whole
hell-fired country t’ work fur them. That’s how th’ ’Pache does his
fightin’. An’ th’ spit-an’-polish officers what come from eastward—they’s
got t’ larn that. Only sometimes they ain’t good at larnin’, an’ then they
gits larned—good an’ proper. Hey, Kells!"
They were at the stable and Fenner lifted a hand, palm out, in greeting to
the liveryman. "Here’s Ole Tar wantin’ his special grub—"
Drew went on to Shiloh’s stall. Reese Topham, the Spaniard _Don_ Lorenzo
who had been in the cantina last night, the stout Mexican Bartolomé, and
_Don_ Cazar himself were all there before him.
"Here he is now." Reese Topham waved a hand at Drew. "This is Mister
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 taut 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?"
"_Sí_, of the Messenger line. But a gray of that breeding—" _Don_ Cazar’s
forefinger ran nail point along his lower lip. "Ariel 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 Mattock’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. "_Sí_,
this one has the pride, the appearance. You have raced him, _señor_?" he
asked Drew with formal courtesy.
"Not on any real track, _señor_. During the war there were no races."
"He wasn’t a cavalry mount?" _Don_ Cazar looked surprised.
"No, suh. Too young for that. He was foaled on April sixth in sixty-two.
That’s why they called 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 to face the man in the blue
uniform.
"Captain Bayliss." It was 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 the permanent
stamp of uncertain temper in the lines about his prominent eyes.
4
"So, you see me, Bayliss," _Don_ Cazar returned evenly. "There is some
trouble?"
Bartolomé 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-reddened 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 break-through by the Federals. Now it was this Anglo
wearing Spanish dress and standing in a dim stable, reining temper to meet
the open hostility of the captain.
"Captain Bayliss." The words sounded as remote as if the speaker bestrode
some peak 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 am
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 men who ride for me do not in
addition ride for Kitchell."
"_Sí_—!" Bartolomé’s face was as flushed as Bayliss’ now. "We do not help
those _bandidos_. 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 the rope. That is not Apache trick, that, but the
work of Kitchell and his snakes!"
"Peace, _amigo_." _Don_ Cazar’s raised finger silenced his man. "Bartolomé
is right, Bayliss. 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 warning you, Rennie, if you
hire any man you can’t answer for, he’s going 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 you call ’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!"
"Bayliss!" 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 alcalde and they
must be referred to him."
The captain favored Rennie with a last glare and was gone. Tobe Kells
spoke first.
"That one’s chewin’ th’ bit an’ gittin’ ready to hump under th’ saddle.
This business of tryin’ to run out th’ Rebs, it’ll cause smokin’!"
"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. Had a set-to in the Jacks
with a trooper. Unless the kid quits trying to fight the war over again
every time he sees an army blouse—or until he stops pouring whisky down
him every time he hits town—there may be shooting trouble. There’re some
equal hot-heads in Bayliss’ camp, and if Johnny goes up against one of
them, a scuffle could become a battle."
"Yeah, an’ that warn’t all Johnny was doin’ last night." Kells shifted his
tobacco cud from one cheek to the other. "Iffen Kirby here hadn’t been to
hand, Johnny would have skinned th’ Trinfan kid with his quirt—jus’ ’cause
he dropped his purse outside th’ Jacks an’ th’ 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
Glorieta, 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 Glorieta. From what I’ve heard most of them
weren’t old enough to grow a good whisker crop." Topham’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 just lose it. Bayliss’ tongue is hanging out a yard or more
he’s panting so hard to get back at you. That captain has heady ambitions
under his hat, maybe like setting up here as a tinpot 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 whisky
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 Rennie 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.