"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 also been tried several times, _señor_. 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 _manada_? 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—" León 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 León come to him with it? Surely young
Rivas had better and closer friends at the Stronghold. Why approach a
newcomer?
"That 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?"
"_Sí_, 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?"
"_Señor_ Juanito—he said a stud that would fight too, like Shiloh."
"Shiloh!" Drew wadded the towel in his fist and pitched it across the
room. "Shiloh!"
León 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?"
"_Señor_ 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.
_Señor_ 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 _Señor_ Juanito told it, it
sounded well."
"Did he tell you to ask me about it?"
The flush darkened. "He did not say so, _señor_. 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 huntin’ of that kind, León. Trinfan knows what
he’s doin’, and I don’t think that pinto is goin’ to be runnin’ 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 León into using
Shiloh as bait in this fool stunt. Had he expected the kid to take the
horse without Drew’s knowledge? Or for some reason had he wanted León 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 dun gelding the
Kentuckian rode 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 Tubacca.
From a rocky point well before them there was a flash of light. Jared Nye,
on Drew’s left, took off his hat and waved a wide-armed signal to answer
Greyfeather’s mirror. Two of the Pimas were scouting ahead on this two-day
drive, and the Anglo riders were keeping the herd to a trot. Apaches,
Kitchell, even _bandidos_ from over the border, could be sniffing about
the Range, 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 Colts’ loading was
checked.
Nye swerved, sending a lagger on with a sharp crack of quirt in the air.
He pulled up to match Drew’s sobered trot.
"That’s the last bad stretch; now it’ll be downhill an’ green fields all
th’ way." Nye nodded at the narrow opening between two hills lying ahead.
"Glad to get this band in on all four legs an’ runnin’ easy."
"You expected trouble?"
"Kid, in this here country you don’t expect nothin’ else but. Last time we
brought hosses up th’ trail they jumped us four, five miles back—right
close to where we saw that pile of bones this mornin’. ’Fore he knew what
hit us Jim Berry was face down an’ never got up again. An’ th’ Old Man
took him a crease ’crost th’ ribs that made him bleed like a stuck pig.
Got him patched up an’ into town; then he keeled over when he tried to git
down off his hoss an’ was in bed a week."
"Apaches?"
"Naw, we figured it was Kitchell. Couldn’t prove it though, an’ after that
th’ Old Man made a rule we take Pimas every drive. Ain’t nothin’ able to
surprise them. I never had no use for Injuns, but these here are peaceful
cusses—iffen they don’t smell an Apache. With them ridin’ point we’re sure
slidin’ th’ groove. Me, I’ll be glad to hit town. I’d shore like to keep
th’ barkeep busier than a beaver buildin’ hisself a new dam. Though with
th’ Old Man off reppin’ for th’ law down along the border and needin’
hands back on the Range, we swallows down th’ dust nice an’ easy an’ takes
it slow. Anyway, this far from payday I kin count up mosta m’ roll without
takin’ it outta m’ pocket."
"This Kitchell...think it’s true that some of the ranchers are really
helpin’ him?"
"Don’t know. Might be he’s tryin’ to play th’ deuce against th’ whole
deck. Lessen he lives on th’ kind of whisky as would make a rabbit up an’
spit in a grizzly’s eye hole, he’s got somethin’—or someone—to back him.
Me...were th’ Old Man poundin’ th’ hills flat lookin’ for me, I’d crawl
th’ nearest bronc an’ make myself as scarce as a snake’s two ears." Nye
shrugged. "Kitchell’s got some powerful reason for squattin’ out in th’
brush playin’ cat-eyed with most of th’ territory. Maybe so there’re some
as will sit in on his side, but they’ve sure got their jaws in a sling an’
ain’t bawlin’ about it none. ’Course lotsa people were red-hot Rebs back
in ’61 till they saw as how white men fightin’ each other jus’ naturally
gave th’ Apaches an’ some of th’ border riffraff idears ’bout takin’ over.
But mosta us now ain’t wavin’ no flag. Iffen Kitchell has got him some
diehards backin’ him—" Nye shrugged again. "Git ’long 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 Kells’ stable. Shadow
nickered a greeting and turned around as if to purposefully edge her
daughter forward for his inspection.
"Pretty, ma’am," he told her. "Very pretty. She’s goin’ to be as fine a
lady as her ma—I’m willin’ 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 ’em back to th’ Range with you, Mister Kirby?" Callie came
down from the loft.
"Yes. I’ll need a cart and driver though. We’ll have to give the foal a
lift. Know anyone for hire, Callie?"
"I’ll ask around. Have any trouble comin’ up?"
"No. Greyfeather and Runnin’ Fox were scoutin’ for us."
"Stage was jumped yesterday on th’ Sonora road," Callie volunteered. "One
men got him a bullet in th’ shoulder, but they got away clean. It was
Kitchell, th’ driver thought. Captain Bayliss took out a patrol right
away. You plannin’ on goin’ 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. Back here in Tubacca he was
conscious 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 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 riding.
There was someone at a 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 ’bout five minutes ago. Said for you to wait
here for him. You hear ’bout Kitchell holdin’ up th’ 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 ’bout
keepin’ 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."
"Sing’s in th’ kitchen. I’ll give him th’ sign to rattle th’ pans.
Say—been racin’ that Shiloh of yours lately? Sure am glad I played a hunch
an’ backed him against Oro." Fowler’s red forelock bobbed over his high
forehead as he nodded vigorously.
"No racin’ on the Range."
"Hope you’re keepin’ him closer. That border crew’d sure like to git a
rope on him! Down Sonora way one of them Mexes would dig right down to th’
bottom of his money chest to buy a hoss like that. I’ll go an’ 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!" Nye 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. Looked 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’s 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’s—?" began Nye.
Muller interrupted. "Found him crawlin’ along right near town. Says as how
he was took by Kitchell ’n’ got away, but he ain’t too clear ’bout what
happened or where. Wearin’ a crease ’longside his skull; maybe that
scrambled up his thinkin’ 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 away from the water-hole
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 somethin’ 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 go get Hamilcar. He knows somethin’ ’bout doctorin’," 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." Muller made it more order than request as he left.
Drew sat alone 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 did you git them spurs?"
Drew turned, his lips shaped a name, tried again, and got it out as a
hoarse whisper. "Anse! Don’t you know me, Anse?"
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 into a rough half embrace. "Anse!" He swayed to the joyous
pounding of a fist between his shoulder blades. "I thought you were dead!"
he somehow gasped.
"An’ I seen _you_ go down; a slug got you plumb center!" the Texan
sputtered. "Rolled ’round a bush an’ saw you git it! But for a ghost
you’re sure lively!"
"Caught me in the belt buckle," Drew recounted that miracle of the war.
"Knocked me out; didn’t really touch to matter, though."
Anse pushed away a little, still holding Drew tightly by the upper arms.
"Anybody told me I’d see Drew Rennie live an’ kickin’, I’d said straight
to his face he was a fork-tongued liar!"
Drew came partly to his senses and the present. Fowler ... Nye ... either
one of them could come back on this reunion. "Anse—listen! This is
important. I ain’t Drew Rennie—not here, not now—"
"Had to draw a new name outta th’ deck?" Anse’s grin faded; his eyes
narrowed. "All right, what’s the goin’ handle?"
"Kirby, Drew Kirby ... I’ll explain later." He had given the warning only
just in time. Fowler and Hamilcar 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 Anse. 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
" ... and that’s the way it is." Drew sat on the stool which was the only
other furnishing in the bath cubicle while Anse splashed and wallowed in
the slab tub.