"I don’t know. Would you?"
"Go with m’ hat in hand an’ say, ’Well, Pa, here’s your wanderin’ boy’?
No, I dunno as how I’d be makin’ that kinda play neither. Never was one to
unspool th’ bedroll till I was sure o’ th’ brand I was ridin’ for. An’ you
an’ me’s kinda hide-matched there. Glad you wised me up in time."
"Maybe I didn’t," Drew admitted.
"You mean that Shannon? I know you think he’s filin’ his teeth for you,
but I’d say he was too busy countin’ stars from that skull beltin’ to make
sense out of our hurrawin’. I’ll give him th’ eye though. Lissen now,
you’re Kirby—so am I called for a rebrandin’, too? Seems like two Kirbys
turnin’ up in a town this size is gonna 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 ownself. 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 jus’ like it happened, you’ll think I’m callin’ up mountains
outta prairie-dog hills, it’s that crazy. But it’s range truth. Yeah, I
landed outta that saddle on some mighty hard ground. If you’ll remember, I
had me a hole in the shoulder big enough to let th’ wind whistle through.
I rolled between th’ bushes jus’ in time to see you get it—plumb center
an’ final, so I thought. Then ... well, I don’t remember too good for a
while. Next time I was able to take a real interest I was lyin’ on a bed
with about a mountain of quilts on top me, weaker’n a yearlin’ what’s jus’
been dragged outta a bog hole. Seems like them Yankees gathered me up with
th’ rest of them bushwacker scrubs, but when they got me a mile or so down
th’ road they decided as how I’d had it good an’ there was no use wastin’
wagon room on me. So they let me lie....
"Only," the Texan paused and then continued more soberly, "Drew,
sometimes—sometimes it seems like a hombre can have a mite more’n his
share of luck; or else he’s got him Someone as is line ridin’ for him. We
had us friends in Tennessee, an’ it jus’ happened as how I was dropped
where one of them families found me. They sure was good folks; patched me
up an’ saw me through like I was their close kin. Hid me out by sayin’ as
how I had th’ cholera.
"An’ most of th’ time I didn’t know a rope from a saddle—outta my head
complete. First there was that shoulder hole; then I got me a good case of
lung fever. It was two months ’fore I could crawl round better’n a sick
calf what lost its ma too early. Then, jus’ as I got so I could stamp m’
boots on th’ ground an’ expect to stand straight up in ’em, this here
Yankee patrol came ’long an’ dogged me right into a bunch o’ our boys they
had rounded up. I had me some weeks in a prison stockade, which ain’t, I’m
tellin’ you, no way for to spend any livin’ time. Then this here war was
over, an’ I was loose. No hoss, no nothin’. Some of th’ boys got to
talkin’ ’bout trailin’ back to Texas, tryin’ out some ranchin’ in the bush
country. A lotta wild stuff down there—nobody’s been runnin’ brands on
anythin’ much since ’61. We planned to get a herd of mavericks, drive up
into Kansas or Missouri, an’ sell. A couple of th’ boys had run stuff in
that way for th’ army, even swum ’em across the Mississippi. It would
maybe give us a start. An’—well, there weren’t nothin’ else to do. So we
tried it." Anse 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 weal of the scar on his shoulder.
"And it didn’t work?"
"Well, it might’ve. I ain’t sayin’ it won’t for some hombres. Only we run
into trouble. Texas ain’t Texas no more; it’s th’ Fifth Military District.
Any man what fought for th’ Confederacy ain’t got any rights. It’s worse’n
an Injun war. We got us our herd, leastwise th’ beginnin’ of one. An’ that
was back-breakin’ work—we was feelin’ as beat as when we run out of
Tennessee after Franklin. Only we kept to it, ’cause it would give us a
stake. So we started drivin’ north, an’ they jumped us."
"Who?"
"Yankees—th’ brand what probably set at home an’ let others do th’ real
fightin’—ready to come in an’ take over once th’ shootin’ was done with.
They grabbed th’ herd. Shot Will Bachus when he stood up to ’em, an’ made
it all legal ’cause they had a tin-horn deputy ridin’ with ’em. Well, we
got him anyway an’ two or three of th’ others. But then they called in th’
army, an’ we had to ride for it. Scattered so they had more’n one trail to
follow. But they posted us as ’wanted’ back there. So I come whippin’ a
mighty tired hoss outta Texas, an’ I ain’t plannin’ on goin’ back to any
Fifth Military District!"
"Any chance they’ll push a star after you here?"
"No. I’m jus’ small stuff, not worth botherin’ ’bout by their reckonin’,
now I ain’t got anythin’ left them buzzards can pick offen m’ bones.
They’s sittin’ tight an’ gittin’ fat right there."
"Then it’s all set." Drew tossed Anse 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 a lot to be topped—want to gentle ’em some and trade ’em
south into Mexico. If you ride for _Don_ Cazar, nobody’s goin’ to ask too
many questions."
"How d’you know he’ll sign me on?" Anse studied his own unkempt 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.
"Looky here, you thinkin’ of grub stakin’? I ain’t gonna—"
"Suppose you had yourself a stack of cart wheels and my pockets were to
let?" Drew retorted. "I think I remember me some times 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?"
Anse 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 m’
foreleg an’ reshoe me anyway. Right now—I’ll say it out good’n clear—I’m
so pore m’ backbone rattles when I cough."
"Mistuh Kirby—" Hamilcar came in. "Mistuh Nye says to tell you he’ll be
back. Mistuh Shannon’s in bed at th’ doctuh’s; he’s gonna be all right
soon’s he gets ovah 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 ridin’ light. I’m
goin’ over to pick him up a new outfit at Stein’s. You give him all the
rest, will you?"
"Yes, suh."
Blue blouses—a corporal’s guard of troopers—were pulling up by the cantina
hitch rail as Drew came out into the plaza. Muller’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-browned,
rein-hardened hand: Cousin Meredith; her son Shelly—he had died at
Chickamauga between one short breath and the next—Shelly’s younger brother
Boyd, who had run away to join Morgan, too, in the sunset of the raider’s
career; and Anse, whom he had believed dead until this past hour.
Drew was breathing as fast as if he had charged across the sun-baked plaza
at a run, when he came into the general store which supplied Tubacca with
nine-tenths of the materials necessary for frontier living. He made his
selection with care.
"You planning a trip, Mister 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, patted 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—here in Stein’s?
Weighing the volume in his hand, the Kentuckian 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, Mister 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, Mister
Kirby, these were brought to me by Amos Lutterfield?"
"Lutterfield? Who’s he?"
"I forget, you have not been in Tubacca 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, sometimes coming 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 bookplate 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 perhaps read these?" Stein asked.
Drew picked up _The Three Musketeers_. "Not likely to forget this one," he
said, grinning. "Earned me a good ten with the 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 a price, and
Drew bargained. When he left, the three books reposed on the top of his
armload of clothing, and a half 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
finger tip.
"Can’t believe it ... how they came back to you," he marveled. "One of
them Yankees musta took ’em off me, thinkin’ I was cashin’ in m’ chips.
Sure feels good to git ’em back on my heels agin, sorta like they was m’
luck. Pa, he set a right lot by them spurs. Gave ’em to me when I gentle
broke a wild one none o’ th’ other boys could back. Was I turkey-cock
proud th’ first day I rode into town with ’em playin’ pretty tunes, even
though I strapped ’em on over boots as was only three pieces of leather
hangin’ to each other restless like. Yeah, Pa, he got ’em in the Mexican
War, an’ me, I wore ’em mostly through this past ruckus. They’s sure seen
a lotta history bein’ made by men climbin’ up an’ 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?
"Anse," 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—"
Anse took up the top book. His finger traced each word as he read. "_The
Three Mus—Musketeers._ Whatever kinda critter is that?"
"A soldier. They used to have them over in France a long time ago."
"Army manual, eh? 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 winnin’ th’ country,
don’t it? This about the Mex War which our pa’s fought?" He flicked open
the pages eagerly.
"No, the earlier one—when the Spanish came in under Cortés and broke up
the Aztec empire ... back in the 1500’s."
"Kinda stiff readin’ ... looks interestin’ though." Anse gave his verdict.
"We had us two books. Pa learned us to read outta them. One was th’ Bible
Ma brought long when she was married. T’other—that sure was kinda queer
how we got that. Pa was in th’ Rangers, an’ 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—a return 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
ridin’ straight into th’ Ranger line, wantin’ to count one o’ them coups
by whangin’ some white man personal with his lance, or some such
foolishness. This buck had him a war shield an’ Pa picked it up when all
th’ smoke blew away. What’d’ you think that there shield was packed with?
Well, this one had a book all tore apart an’ stuffed in between th’ front
an’ back layers of hide. Th’ boys in th’ company, they got right
interested in sortin’ out all them pages an’ puttin’ ’em in order agin,
kinda like a game, Pa said. Pa, he never had much schoolin’, but he could
read good an’ write an’ figger. He sure liked to read, so he claimed that
there book when it was all tied up together agin—’cause he shot th’ buck
as was carryin’ th’ shield. So he made a buckskin case and kept all th’
pages together. That was ’bout soldiers of th’ old time, too—parts of it.
Romans they was called. Wonder now—did it maybe go back into a shield agin
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 unseeing stare. He outlined what Stein
had told him, and Anse’s attention was all his again.
"Might catch up with this Lutterfield an’ ask a few questions—"
"Stein couldn’t get anythin’ out of him. Guess the old man is a little
addled. Maybe someone was storin’ stuff, hopin’ to come back when the war
was over. Anyway, there’s no way to identify the owner or owners—"
Anse picked up _The Three Musketeers_. "You say this is good—’bout
fightin’ an’ such?"