"Somethin’ like this is good t’ have. A hombre gits tired readin’ labels
on cans. I’d like to see how much Pa pushed into m’ thick head. Good
coverin’ this book has. Wouldn’t you say as th’ hombre that had it was
kinda heavy in th’ pocket?"
"Yes. In fact, these were bound to order."
"How can you tell that?"
"These two might have come bound alike." Drew pointed to the book Anse
held and _The Count of Monte Cristo_. "They were written by the same
author and could have been part of a matched set. But this one is on a
totally different subject and by another writer—Prescott. Yet it is
uniformly bound to match the others. I’d say they came from the personal
library of a man able to indulge himself in pretty expensive tastes."
"Makes you think," Anse agreed. "Wonder what else was in that trunk."
"Looky what we’ve got us here! Regular li’l schoolhouse right in this
cantina!"
The table moved an inch or so as a thick body brought up with a rush
against it. A hand, matted with sun-bleached hair, made a grab for the
book Drew had just laid down. Before the startled Kentuckian could pull it
back from that grasp, hand and book were gone, and the trooper who had
taken it was reeling back to the bar, waving the trophy over his head.
"Schoolhouse ... right here ..." he mouthed. "Sittin’ there ... two li’l
boys, studyin’ their lessons. Now, ain’t that somethin’?"
A chair went over with a crash. Anse was on his feet, had taken two steps
in the direction of the soldier. Drew jumped after him, trying to assess
the situation even as his hand closed restrainingly on the Texan’s
shoulder.
There were four troopers. Wide grins on the faces of the three still
against the bar suggested they were ready to back their companion in any
form of horseplay he intended to try.
"Sam, one o’ them thar schoolboys is breathin’ down yore neck kinda hot
like," the tallest of the bar row observed.
Anse jerked against Drew’s hold. There was no expression on his thin face,
but the old saber scar from lip to eye on his left cheek was suddenly
twice as noticeable.
Sam reached up against the bar, squirmed around, the book still in his
hand.
"Wal, now, sonny, you ain’t really wantin’ this here book back? Never
knowed any li’l boy what warn’t glad to see th’ last o’ a book. Better git
away from a real man ’fore you gits yore backside warmed. That’s what th’
teacher does to smarty kids, ain’t it?"
"You’d better watch out, Sam." Again the tall man cut in. Sam was still
grinning, but there was a curve of lip which was far from any real humor,
even that provoked by the practical jokes of a barracks bully. "One of
them kids had been sayin’ as how he rode with Forrest, regular li’l
red-hot Reb, he is. Stomp all over us ... that’s what you Rebs has been
promisin’ to do, ain’t it? Gonna stomp all over any Blue Bellies as comes
into this town? Well, we ain’t bein’ booted—not easy—an’ not by you, Reb!"
A second, perhaps more—that much warning Drew had before the speaker
lurched from the bar straight for him. What had happened, how this had
sprung up out of nothing, the Kentuckian could not understand. But he knew
well that he was under an attack delivered with a purpose, and with all
the dirty tricks of a no-rules, back-alley fighter.
8
Only once before, when some river toughs had ganged up on the scouts, had
Drew had to use fists to beat his way out of an argument. But that had
been a round dance at Court House Day compared to this. Within moments the
Kentuckian knew that he was no match for the trooper, that he would be
lucky if he could get out of this unmaimed. The fellow knew every dirty
trick and was eager to use them all. Drew tried only to keep on his feet
and out of the other’s grip. Once down, he knew he would have no chance at
all.
Then he was jerked back, off balance, staggering on to bring up against
the wall. He caught at the solid backing and somehow remained upright,
seeing hazily through one eye. The other was puffing closed, and his lip
was torn, a trickle of blood rising there to drip down his chin. He put
both hands to his middle where more than one of the pile-driver knocks had
landed, and tried to understand what was happening.
Sergeant Muller ... that was Muller standing over the man on the floor.
And Nye ... Reese Topham ... suddenly the cantina was very well populated.
Drew turned his head cautiously to see on his blind side. Anse was down!
The Kentuckian stood away from the wall, lurched out to fall to his knees.
He rolled the Texan over on his back. Anse’s eyes fluttered open, and he
looked up dazedly. There was an angry red mark on his chin just an inch or
so away from the point of his jaw.
"Now, just what devil’s business is goin’ on here?" The sergeant’s voice
was a roar to hurt the ears. Somehow Drew got an arm under Anse’s
shoulders and tried to hoist him up. The Kentuckian swallowed blood from
his lip and glared at Muller.
"Suppose you ask those high-binders of yours!" he snapped. And once more
it was Sergeant Rennie who spoke.
Other hands joined his to boost Anse. With Topham’s aid Drew regained his
feet and got the staggering Texan, still half unconscious, onto a chair.
"I’m interested, too." The cantina owner’s drawl was as slow as ever, but
it held a note of a whiplash.
"Them soldiers...." Fowler appeared, the bar-side shotgun across his
arm—"they jumped th’ boys. I saw it, myself."
"Yeah, told yuh these town buzzards’re all th’ same. Stick together an’
have it in for th’ army!"
Drew could not see which of the troopers had burst out with that, but in
his present mood all bluecoats were the enemy.
"Dirty Yanks!" Anse’s eyes were fully focused now—right on the sergeant.
Anse struggled to get up, but Topham’s hands on his shoulders held him
down. His hand went to his holster, and Drew’s fist came down on the
Texan’s wrist, hard.
"See that thar, Sarge! Th’ stinkin’ polecat of a Reb was gonna draw on
you! Told you, they’s all alike. Th’ war ain’t over; we jus’ gotta keep on
lickin’ ’em. Give us room, an’ we’ll do it again—now!"
Anse’s face was green-white under the weathering, save for the wound on
his jaw. He was watching Muller as if the sergeant, rather than his men,
was the focal point of any future attack.
"You—Stevens—shut your trap!" Muller’s roar brought silence. Drew could
actually hear the panting breaths of the men now.
"Mitchell, what happened here?" Muller turned to the man at his far right.
The trooper was younger than the rest, his face still holding something of
a boyish roundness. His eyes shifted under the sergeant’s steady, boring
stare, and he glanced at the rest of his companions, the two disheveled
fighters, the lanky man picking up a forage cap and handing it to one of
them.
"I dunno, Sergeant. Th’ boys ... they was jus’ funnin’. They didn’t meant
nothin’, jus’ funnin’. Then these here Rebs, they come right after Helms,
was gonna jump him from behind. An’ Danny waded in jus’ to keep that
one"—the boy pointed straight at Drew—"offa Helms. That’s what happened.
Th’ boys didn’t mean no harm—jus’ havin’ a little fun—when these Rebs
jumped ’em!"
Drew pulled up his neckerchief and dabbed at his cut lip. Anse had
subsided, though he was still watching the sergeant with an unrelenting
gaze. The Kentuckian tried to remember where Fowler had been during the
fracas. He had spoken up for them already, but would Muller accept his
testimony over that of his own men? There was already ill feeling between
the army and the town. Drew remembered _Don_ Cazar’s encounter with
Bayliss at Kells’ stable. What had Reese Topham said then? That the
captain was only waiting to make trouble for Rennie. And now here he was
himself—one of Rennie’s riders—involved in a saloon fight with troopers.
Drew began to realize that this could be even worse than the physical
punishment he and Anse had suffered.
"You ... bartender—" The sergeant now looked to Fowler. "What’d you see?"
"You ain’t gonna take his word for it, for anythin’ in this mudhole of a
town, are you, Sarge? They’d all lie their heads off to git a trooper into
trouble. Wouldn’t you now?" The lanky man sidled along the bar to snarl at
Fowler.
"Stevens, shut that big mouth of yours, an’ I ain’t gonna say that agin!
All right, Fowler, tell me what _you_ saw!"
Fowler slid the shotgun out of sight, apparently sure that an armistice,
at least, was assured.
"Th’ boys"—he nodded at Drew and Anse—"were sittin’ at that table, mindin’
their own business. Helms, he went over an’ picked up a book——"
"A book!" Muller’s craggy features mirrored astonishment. "What book?
Why?"
Topham moved and suddenly they were all watching him. He stooped, picked
up the dark-brown volume, and a torn page fluttered to the floor. He
gathered that up, too, and tucked it back in the proper place.
"It would seem, Sergeant," he remarked, "that there _was_ a book involved.
And if your men didn’t bring it in here, then Kirby or his friend must
have. This is certainly not a cantina fixture. Hmm, _History of the
Conquest of Mexico_," he read the title on the cracked spine. "There are
more books, I see." He stepped to the side of the overturned table,
gathered the other two volumes, and placed them together in a neat pile on
the bar. All of the men continued to watch him as if his actions were
highly significant.
"So—" he turned to face Muller. "We have established that there was a
book, in fact, three books."
"What’d you want with that book, Helms?" Muller demanded.
He was met by a scowl. "Nothin’. I was jus’ funnin’—like Ben said. Then
them Rebs started playin’ rough, an’ we jus’ gave ’em a lesson."
Fowler snorted. "I say Helms started it, an’ th’ jumpin’ went th’ other
way ’round, Sergeant. An’ that’s all I got to say."
"Well, it isn’t all I have to say! Sergeant, just what is going on here?"
Whoever, having once heard that turkey cock crow, could ever forget it,
thought Drew. Captain Bayliss strode in, powdery white dust graying his
blue blouse, his face redder and more sun peeled than ever. The troopers
behind Muller stiffened into wooden soldiers, all expression vanishing
from their features until they matched each other in exact anonymity.
"Sergeant, take those two men into custody." A jerk of the head indicated
Drew and Anse. The Kentuckian straightened.
"On what charge, Captain?" he got out.
"Attacking a United States soldier."
"In performance of his duty, Captain?" Reese Topham cut in. "I hardly
think you can say that. Your men were apparently off duty. At least they
were in here, drinking, too. You _did_ serve them, Fowler?"
"Sure did, boss! Let’s see now ... Helms, he had whisky; so did Stevens.
Mitchell, now, he had a beer——"
"It remains that they were attacked while wearing the uniform!" Bayliss’
glare now included the full company before him.
"From what I’ve heard, they did the attacking," Topham pointed out. "At
least Helms seems to have given provocation. No, Captain Bayliss, your men
were in here drinking. They started a brawl. Your sergeant very rightly
broke it up. That’s the sum of the matter!"
Bayliss’ high color was fading. "You want it left that way, Topham?" he
asked icily. "This only confirms my contention that matters in Tubacca are
completely out of control, that the Rebel element has the backing of the
citizens. I shall so report it."
"That is your privilege." Topham nodded. "But this is still Tubacca and
not your camp, Captain. And _my_ cantina. If you want to declare my
establishment out of bounds for your men, that is also your privilege."
"I do so—immediately! Sergeant, get these men out of here!"
"What about the prisoners, sir?"
"I think the captain will agree there are no prisoners," Topham said. "We
would be obliged to give evidence at any army hearing, Captain. Kirby here
is not a troublemaker. I would unhesitatingly vouch for him."
Bayliss looked directly at Drew.
"You have a job? A reason for being in town?" He shot the questions as he
might have shot slugs from his Colt. Nye answered before Drew could.
"He sure has a job, Cap’n. He’s ridin’ th’ rough string for Rennie. An’ he
came to town with them remounts you’re buyin’. An’ what Topham says is
true, th’ kid ain’t no troublemaker. He’s ’bout th’ most peaceful hombre I
ever rode with."
"Rider for Rennie, eh? I might have known!" Bayliss snapped. "And what
about this one—he riding for Rennie, too?" He pointed to Anse.
"He’s my cousin," Drew returned. "He just got into town."
"Another Rebel?"
Anse stood up. "If you mean was I with th’ Confederate army, Yankee—I sure
was, from Shiloh clean through. Got me this to prove it. Do you want to
see?" From the inner band of his hat he brought out a much creased paper.
"No, you don’t!" He twitched the sheet away when Bayliss reached for it.
"I’ll jus’ let Mister Topham read it. I want to keep it safe." He handed
the paper to the gambler.
"Parole, Captain, signed and made out properly," Topham reported. "Dated
in Tennessee for a prisoner of war—June, 1865. I hardly think you can
claim this is one of Kitchell’s men, if that is what you have in mind."
"No, but he’ll be out of this town or he’ll answer to me. Both of you—next
time you step over the line, I’m taking you both in!" Bayliss spoke now to
Nye. "I heard young Shannon was here, that you had him in tow and that
he’s seen Kitchell. I want to talk to him."
"He’s over to th’ doc’s, an’ Doc’ll have th’ say ’bout that, Cap’n," Nye
replied. "Johnny took a pretty bad crease ’longside his skull."
"He’ll answer a few questions that badly need answering." Bayliss was
already on his way to the door. Nye stepped back and let him pass. He
grinned.
"Let him have it out with Doc. Ain’t nobody runnin’ a stampede over Doc
Matthews, not even th’ cap’n when he’s got his tail up an’ ready to hook
sod with both horns. Only, lissen here, kid, maybe you’d better keep outta
sight. Seems like a man who’s waitin’ to catch a fella makin’ his boot
mark in th’ wrong pasture can sometimes do it."
"Nye’s right," Topham agreed. "Bayliss can either catch you off guard or
see you’re provoked again into doing something he can rope you in for. I’d
get back to the Range and stay there until things settle down a little and
someone else takes the good captain’s mind off you."
"What about Anse? You take him on, Nye?" Drew asked.
"I ain’t got th’ authority to hire, Kirby. But no reason why he can’t go
down th’ trail with us. Old Man is always on lookout for a good rider.
Soon as we see how Johnny’s doin’, we’ll head south. I already sent
Greyfeather back to tell the Old Man th’ kid’s hurt an’ up here. Reese,
what’d you think ’bout Bayliss? That he’ll try to take over runnin’ the
town?"
"Might just," the gambler replied.
"_Could_ he do it?"
"I hardly think so. What he’s really out for is Hunt’s hide. He doesn’t
want a powerful civilian ready to face up to him all the time. If he can
discredit _Don_ Cazar in this country, he figures he has it made."
Nye laughed shortly. "Lordy, what bottle did he suck out a dream like
that? A lizard might jus’ as well try to fight it out with a cougar an’
think he hadda chance of winnin’. This here’s th’ Range, an’ ain’t nobody
but th’ Old Man runs th’ Range! Bayliss, he’s ridin’ for a fall as will
jar them big grinnin’ teeth of his right outta his jaws!"
"Maybe, only there can be upsets." Topham looked thoughtful.
"What kind—and how?" Drew asked quickly.
Topham was playing with the three books, setting them up, putting them
flat again. "Hunt didn’t take sides during the war, but he did have
Southern sympathies in part. After all, he was Texas-born. And Johnny
joined Howard when they raised that Confederate troop here. He retreated
with Sibley’s force back east and fought through the rest of the war on
the Southern side. Yes, Bayliss, given the right circumstances and a
sympathetic listening ear in high circles, could make trouble for Rennie.
Especially if the good captain had an incident on which to hang such a
report."
"You kinda shoved him into that out-of-bounds order for th’ Jacks, didn’t
you now?" Nye pushed his hat to the back of his head and lit a cigarillo.
"Muller and most of the boys can be counted on not to cause any more than
the normal pay-night disturbances. But there’re some.... What _did_ happen
here today, Kirby?"
Drew told it straight and flat in as few words as possible. And Topham’s
face was sober when he had finished. The gambler brought the top book of
the pile down on the bar with a thud.
"I don’t like it!"
"Jus’ ornery meanness, warn’t it? There’s always a few hombres in any
outfit as tries to push when they gits a slug or two under their belts,"
Nye observed.
"True. Only Helms went out of his way this time. And I’d like to know what
triggered him into it. I can understand some roughhousing on his
part—Stevens, too—providing these boys were on the prod in the beginning.
But this book business was too deliberate. Books—" He held up the volume
he was still fingering. "Where’d these come from anyway, Kirby?"
Drew retailed the story he had heard from Stein. Nye walked over to look
at the display of reading matter, his interest plainly aroused.
"Lutterfield brought ’em in, eh? Now that’s somethin’. Trunk in a cave ...
Sounds like these might belong to one of them mine men—a super, maybe.
They pulled out fast in ’61, right after th’ army left. Except for Hodges,
an’ th’ Rebs threw him in jail after they took his business an’ what cash
he had on hand."
"Could be," Topham agreed. "But where they came from doesn’t matter as
much as why Helms chose to use them the way he did. However—and now I’m
giving it to you straight, Kirby—this is once I’d follow Bayliss’ orders.
You and your cousin here had better make yourselves scarce."
"An’ jus’ why?" Anse demanded. "We ain’t givin’ you any double-tongue wag
over this——"
"I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying that Bayliss and probably
Helms—maybe others—will be waiting, just as the captain promised. You can
be easily suckered into just such another fight. And they’d be smarter
about it next time, so you won’t have anyone to call their bluff in your
favor. Once they get you into the camp stockade, it might be difficult to
get you out. And this is something else, stranger, you went for your gun a
few minutes ago. Kirby stopped you, but next time that could lead to real
trouble."
"I can’t see why—" Drew began.
"Well"—Anse was on the defensive—"a man can take jus’ so much pushin’, an’
we had more’n that! Next time anybody lays his dirty hands on me, he’s
gonna know he’s had him trouble, all right!"
"I don’t mean that." Drew waved Anse’s retort aside. "I don’t see why we
were jumped in the first place. Unless it was because we happened to be
here at a time when they wanted to start trouble?" He made that into a
question and looked to Topham for the answer.
"Could be," the gambler admitted.
"Only you’re not sure?" Drew persisted.
"Could be you were handy and they had some kind of a hint to start a
ruckus just to show there ain’t any proper law here. Could be that they
knew you ride for Hunt and that made you just the game they wanted."
"Helms’s kinda dumb to play any cute game," Nye protested. "An’ th’ sarge,
he’s always been a good guy, I don’t see him bitin’ happy on any such
backhand orders."
"Not orders, no. Captain Bayliss is still too army to give any such
orders. Helms’s always been a troublemaker; he wouldn’t need much more
than a suggestion or two of the right sort. Helms, Stevens, Danny Birke,
and that kid Mitchell. You’re right so far, Nye." Topham grinned. "Like as
not, I’m imaginin’ things—a greenhorn huntin’ Apaches behind every bush.
None of that crew has the brains to see anything beyond the tip of his
nose. No, I guess we can take it that you were handy and they had too much
red-eye on empty stomachs. Only, I mean it, Kirby, you walk soft and get
back to the Range as quick as you can."
"That suits me," Drew agreed.
"Come on over an’ let Doc take a look at that face of yours," Nye ordered.
"You look like you came up behind a mule an’ the critter did a mite of
dancin’ backwards! You come ’long, too," he extended the invitation to
include Anse.
His face patched up after a fashion, Drew lay full length on the hay in
his old place over Shadow’s stall back at Kells’ stable. Anse sat
crosslegged beside him, the bruise now a black shadow on his jaw.
"Somethin’ ’bout this show’s bad, plain as a black saddle on a white hoss.
Nobody could be fannin’ a six-gun for you personal, Drew, ’less you had a
run-in before with one of them Blue Bellies." The Texan paused and Drew
shook his head, wincing at the pain from his numerous cuts and bruises.
Anse went on. "Some hombres are always on th’ peck once they get likkered
up, but them troopers weren’t that deep. Looks to me now, thinkin’ it
over, they was out to make sod fly. Could be as they had trouble with some
other riders an’ we was handy an’ looked peaceable enough to take easy.
But I dunno. You know, a fella who’s scouted an’ hunted Injuns an’ popped
bush cattle, to say nothin’ of toppin’ wild ones what can look like a nice
quiet little pony one minute an’ have a belly full of bedsprings an’ a sky
touchin’ back th’ next—a fella who’s had him all that kinda experience an’
a saddlebag full of surprises in his time gits so he can smell a storm
comin’ ’fore th’ first cloud shows. If we had the sense we shoulda been
born with, we’d ride hell-to-thunder outta here now!"
"Anse"—Drew wriggled up on one elbow—"you do that. I ain’t going to pull
you into anything—"
"So," the Texan said, nodding, "you’ve been swallowin’ down a whim-wham or
two your ownself?"
"Yes, but every one of them could be only a shadow to scare a jackrabbit."
"Only you plan to go out an’ spit in th’ shadow’s eye?"
"Guess so."
"Then there’ll be two of us. Providin’ Rennie can use him ’nother hand.
You know, this might be interestin’. ’Member what they used to say in the
army? Don’t go borrowin’ trouble nor try to cross a river till you git th’
water lappin’ at your boots."
9
"Times is gittin’ better." Crow Fenner rode with one knee cocked up over
the horn of his saddle, allowing Tar to drop into a pace at which he
seemed to be actually sleep-walking. The wagon train was traveling slow,
the wagons riding heavy in the ruts with their burden of northern goods
heading south. But they were strung in good order and Drew, having seen
the screen of outriders and Pima Scouts, thought that though they offered
temptation, they were not to be easily taken by anything less than a small
troop, very well armed and reckless.
"Yes, siree, this here’s th’ second time we made th’ trip through without
havin’ to burn up a sight of gunpowder! Guess them army boys millin’
around back an’ forth across th’ territory do some good, after all. Pretty
soon there won’t be no need for wearin’ guns loose an’ tryin’ to grow eyes
in th’ back of yore skull!" But Fenner’s own rifle still rode on guard
across his knees, and Drew noted that the scout never broke a searching
survey of the countryside.
"Gittin’ downright civilized, eh?" Anse brought his mount up equal with
the other two.
Fenner spat. "Now that thar I ain’t cottonin’ to none. Ride ’long without
some Injun or _bandido_ poppin’ lead at m’back. Yep, that’s what a man kin
enjoy. But I ain’t takin’ to have maybe one o’ them thar engine trains
snortin’ out dirty smoke an’ sparks hereabouts. Took me a ride on one of
them things onct—never agin! Why a man wants to git hisself all stuck up
with cinders an’ cover territory faster than th’ Good Lord ever intended
him to travel—that’s some stupid thinkin’ I can’t take to. A good hoss,
maybe a wagon, does a man want to do some tradin’ like _Don_ Cazar—that’s
right enough. But them trains, they’s pure pizen an’ a full soppin’ keg o’
it!"
Drew looked about him. The road, rutted deep by the heavy wagons, curled
southward. Those wheel tracks had first been cut almost a hundred years
earlier when the Spaniards had set up their southwestern outposts. This
country was far older than Kentucky, and with just as bloody a history of
wars, raids, and battles. Kentucky had been tamed; trains did puff along
through the Blue Grass and the mountains there. But here—he shook his head
in answer to his own thoughts.
"Ain’t nobody gonna try to run a railroad through here," Anse replied
promptly. "First place, they’re gonna be busy for a while back east
puttin’ up new ones for all them what were busted up in th’ war. Our boys
an’ theirs, too, got real expert toward th’ end—could heat up a rail an’
tie a regular noose in it, were some tree handy to rope it ’round. Gonna
take th’ Yankees some doin’ to git all them back into place." He laughed.
"Drew, ’member that time we took them river steamers an’ had us a real
feed? Times when I was in that Yankee stockade eatin’ th’ swill they
called rations I used to dream ’bout them pickles an’ canned peaches an’
crackers with long sweetin’ poured on ’em!"
"Heard tell as you boys don’t think th’ war’s clear over yet," Fenner
observed. "Didn’t you have yoreselves a ruckus with th’ soldiers at th’
Four Jacks?"
Drew’s reminiscent smile faded. But he was not going to keep on protesting
about the right or wrong of what happened back in town. The way Nye and
Topham had hustled Anse and him out with the wagon train had made it seem
as if they were in disgrace, and that rankled a lot. What was expected of
them—that they should have let Helms pour it on—maybe serve as butts for a
series of practical jokes without raising a finger in their own defense?
On the other hand, the Kentuckian could see the sense behind Topham’s
arguments. If Bayliss wanted to use Drew’s connection with the Range as a
weapon in some scheme against Hunt Rennie, then Hunt Rennie’s son was only
too willing to clear out. Perhaps he should clear out even farther and
head for California. Drew began to think about that. There was Sage. She
couldn’t hope to make such a trip for maybe six months. That would mean
putting off traveling until next spring or early summer. But six months
... Of course, he _could_ go now. _Don_ Cazar would buy the foal and
Shadow, too, and give him a fair price. That would be relinquishing a
dream. No Spur R brand would ever be established here in Arizona. But
sometimes dreams were priced too high....
"You’re mighty grim-mouthed," Anse commented, glancing at Drew sideways.
"Thinkin’ of trains runnin’ through here git you down that far? Or else
that roughenin’ up you took in town still sit sour on your stomach?"
"Sits sour all right," Drew admitted. "Sits sourer to think we were
suckered into it."
The scout glanced from one to the other of the young men.
"You think there’s somethin’ in all that talk Topham was givin’ lip to?"
Anse asked.
"Could be. Can’t say as how I’d like to find out the truth. Look here,
Fenner, we’ve heard a lot about Captain Bayliss wantin’ to make trouble
for _Don_ Cazar. Does everybody believe that?"
"Everybody wot ain’t blind, deef, or outta their natural-born wits,"
Fenner replied. "Bayliss come out here two years ago. ’Fore that, Major
Kenny, he was in command between here an’ Tucson. Had him an outpost right
on th’ edge o’ th’ Range. Him an’ _Don_ Cazar, they never talked no war,
’cept ’gainst Apaches an’ th’ _bandidos_. Was there a raid, th’ major, he
took out th’ troops; and _Don_ Cazar, he took out his riders an’ th’
Pimas. ’Tween ’em they give everybody wot wanted a spot of trouble all
they could chew off an’ a lot more’n they could swallow. Kept things quiet
even if a man hadda rest his hand on his rifle ’bout twenty-four hours
outta every day.
"But this here Bayliss—he’s been like a mule with a burr under his tail
ever since he hit th’ territory. Wants to have th’ say ’bout
everything—includin’ wot goes on at th’ Range—which he ain’t never goin’
t’ have as long as _Don_ Cazar kin sit th’ saddle an’ ride. Back in ’62
when th’ Rebs came poundin’ in here, they spoke soft an’ nice to _Don_
Cazar. They wanted him to back their play an’ see ’em straight on to
Californy. He was from Texas an’ them Texas boys jus’ naturally thought as
how he’d saddle up an’ ride right ’long wi’ ’em. Only he said it loud an’
clear—that such ruckusin’ round only meant th’ whole country here’d go to
pot. When th’ army pulled out, th’ Apaches got it into their heads as how
they finally licked us good an’ proper an’ this here was their country fur
th’ takin’. Nearly was, too.
"Then th’ Rebs got up on their high horse an’ said as how iffen _Don_
Cazar warn’t with ’em, then he was agin ’em, an’ they would jus’ move in
on _him_. He tol’ ’em to go ahead an’ try. An’ seem’ as how they was only
one company hereabouts—Howard’s Rangers—they didn’t try. That’s when
Johnny Shannon had his big bust-up with his pa an’—"
"His father!" Drew could not help that exclamation.
"Wal, _Don_ Cazar ain’t Johnny’s real pa, o’ course. But he shore thinks
th’ world an’ all of Johnny, raising him up from a li’l cub. Johnny warn’t
more’n four o’ thereabouts when _Don_ Cazar went back to Texas an’ got
him. _Don_ Cazar’s been like a pa to Johnny since, an’ a mighty good one,
too. But when th’ Rangers was round here in ’62 Johnny—he had a big row
an’ run off to join ’em. Jus’ a half-growed kid, not big ’nough to raise a
good brush o’ hair on his chin yet. When th’ Yankee boys from Californy
came marchin’ in an’ th’ Rebs had to skedaddle—Johnny, he went with ’em.
Didn’t see Johnny round here agin till last fall when he came ridin’ in
lookin’ mighty beat out an’ down in th’ mouth. But when th’ Union men
came, they was thinkin’ th’ same ’bout _Don_ Cazar. Wanted him to jump
right in an’ swim ’longside o’ them. But he said as how th’ safety of his
people was what was important. He was fightin’ Apaches an’ holdin’ th’
land, an’ that was what meant th’ most to his thinkin’. Then the Yankees
did a lot of fancy cussin’ out ’bout him, trying to make out that he was a
Reb’ cause Johnny lit off with th’ Southerners.
"Till they began to discover nothin’ much goes on round here lessen _Don_
Cazar has a finger in th’ pot. An’ they had to swaller a lotta them hot
an’ hasty words—stuck heavy in quite a few craws, I reckon." Fenner
grinned. "Only, th’ _Don_, he’s got agin him now a big list of little men
who’d like to be big chiefs. Every once in a while they gits together an’
makes war talk. Never quite got up guts ’nough to paint their faces an’
hit th’ trail, not yet. But did somebody like Bayliss look like he was
beginnin’ to make things move, then he’d have a lotta willin’ hands to
help him shove. Up to now Johnny’s been their best bet at gittin’ th’
Range into trouble."
Drew turned his head to look Fenner in the eye. "Now you think we are!" He
did not know why he uttered that as a challenge; the words just came out
that way.
"Not any more’n any of us wot can be drawed into a fight in town. You keep
away from Bayliss. He can’t come huntin’ you without tippin’ his hand so
wide he’d never be able to play agin. Hey, here comes somebody poundin’
leather so hard he’s gonna beat it right intuh th’ ground!" Fenner pulled
up Tar, flung up his hand to signal the wagons to a halt.
Dust rolled in a cloud with two or three riders at its center. They were
pushing the pace all right. Drew jerked his carbine from its saddle boot,
saw Anse beat him to that action by a scant second or two. But the
newcomers were already drawing rein, bringing their foam-lathered horses
to a pawing stop. A buckskin-clad man mounted on a powerful grulla gelding
faced Fenner, his whole tense body and snapping eyes backing the demand he
made:
"Where’s Johnny?"
"Back at town, Rennie, at Doc’s. He ain’t bad. Got him a head crease wot
knocked him silly for a bit. Doc says a day o’ two in bed and then he kin
come home."
"How did it happen?" That second question was as sharp as the first.
"Nobody’s got it straight outta him yet. Army patrol picked him up on th’
road close to town—looked like he’d been footin’ it quite a spell. An’ by
that time he didn’t know wot he was doin’. Nye got him to Doc’s an’ they
put him to bed. He ain’t said much, ’cept Kitchell jumped him down Long
Canyon way——"
"Kitchell!" Hunt Rennie repeated the name and nodded. "But ... Long Canyon
..." There was a shade of puzzlement in his voice. "All right, carry on,
Crow. I’ll try to get back to the Stronghold before you pull south—if
Johnny’s all right. Maybe I can bring him back with me."
The grulla made what was close to a standing leap into a gallop and Rennie
flashed along the line of wagons in the opposite direction toward Tubacca.
Fenner signaled once more and the train began the slower trip southward.
Drew sat watching the dust arise again as the trio of riders pounded away.
He could no longer make out individual riders, just the rising dust.
Rennie on his way to Johnny Shannon ... What had Fenner said-"li’l cub ...
warn’t more ’n four." Drew Rennie at four—hard to sort out one very early
memory from another. There had been that time Uncle Murray had caught him
down at the creek, making paper boats. How could a child that young know
one kind of paper from another? But Hunt Rennie’s son was judged to have
torn up a letter with deliberate malice, not just taken paper found
conveniently on the veranda. Was he four then, or even younger? But he
could remember the punishment very vividly. And the time he’d run off to
see the circus come into town, he and Shelly ... Cousin Jeff, Cousin
Merry, they had tried to beg him off from Grandfather’s punishment that
time, not that they had succeeded. Drew Rennie at four, at six, at twelve,
at sixteen—riding out at night with Castleman’s Company, weaving a path
south through enemy-occupied territory to join General Morgan—few of those
would-be cavalrymen over twenty-one. Yes, he could remember for Drew
Rennie all the way back.
"Hey, you plannin’ to claim this here range?" Anse’s horse trotted up, and
Drew was suddenly aware that the trailer of the last wagon had already
pulled past him. He tightened rein, and the well-trained horse broke into
a canter.
"Not hardly." He tried to meet Anse’s attempt at humor halfway. "Don’t
look too promisin’."
"Lissen here"—Anse rode so close their spurs were near to hitting—"you
sure you got hold of th’ right end of th’ runnin’ iron now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, ’bout Shannon. You heard what Fenner said—Rennie’s like a pa to
him. An’ maybe ..." His voice died away.
"And maybe that’s that? He has my place, and it’s really his now?" Drew
asked bleakly. "Could be."
Yes, it could well be that this was a good time to bow out. Maybe he
should not have ridden out of Tubacca at all. Maybe he should have cut out
of the game yesterday.... Or never come down into the valley weeks ago ...
or left Red Springs.... Those "maybes" stretched as far back and as neatly
in line as the railroad tracks they had been talking about earlier, one
slipping smoothly into another as if cast in one strong string of doubts.
Just as he had had that moment of disappointment the first time he had
seen Hunt Rennie, so he felt that identical void now, only twice as wide
and deep.
What had he expected, anyway? Some kind of instant recognition on his
father’s part? That all the welcoming would be on the other side, breaking
right through the barrier he had been building for years? His feelings
were so illogical he could have laughed at them, only he had no laughter
left. He had not tried to open the door, so why did he care that it
remained firmly shut?
"Did you ever think about California, Anse? Sounds like a place a man
would like to see."
He was conscious that the Texan’s horse quickened pace, only to be reined
in again.
"You thinkin’ about cuttin’ out? Yesterday——"
"Yesterday——" Drew tried to think back to how he had felt yesterday about
Topham’s warning and how he himself had held the absurd belief that if
_Don_ Cazar was going to be in trouble, Drew himself wanted to be there.
That was yesterday. But still he pointed his horse south—to the place
where Hunt Rennie would return, bringing Johnny Shannon.
The Kentuckian fell back on the old "wait and see." He had learned long
since that time took care of a lot of worries. Now he made himself grin at
Anse.
"Was worryin’ about wet feet before my boots were in the river again," he
confessed.
"Don’t let it git to be no habit," the Texan warned. "You try ridin’
_with_ th’ bumps awhile, not agin them!"
"Agreed." Drew urged his horse on toward the front of the train where they
wouldn’t have to breathe the dust.
"... m’ cousin, Anson Kirby ..." Drew made, the introduction to Bartolomé
Rivas. The wagons were forted up outside the Stronghold, a second square,
smaller but almost as easily defended as the adobe walls. In two or three
days the train would pull out again, starting the long trip down into
Sonora.
Rivas surveyed Anse none too amicably, his gaze going from man to horse
and its gear, then back to the Texan once more.
"You are Tejano," he said flatly. "From the Neusca——"
Anse showed no surpise at being so accurately identified.
"Been bush poppin’," he agreed, smiling.
"Not much cattle here," Rivas returned.
"Run hosses in th’ San Sabe ’fore th’ war." Anse’s tone was offhand, he
might have been discussing the weather.
"_Don_ Cazar decides," Bartolomé said. "There is work at the corrals, but
he will decide."
"Fair enough," Anse agreed. When Bartolome had moved out of hearing, he
added for Drew’s benefit:
"I think it’d be ’no’ if that hombre had th’ sayin’. He plumb don’t like
my style."
"But Rennie does need men—guards for the wagon trains, riders——"
Anse shrugged as he off-saddled. "Will he want one as got into a brawl
about his third day in town? Anyway, maybe I’ve a day or so to breathe
full before he tells me to roll m’ bed again, if he’s goin’ to."
During the next three days Drew made a new discovery. Just as he had
fallen into an easy, working rhythm with Anse back in the army—so that on
occasion their thoughts and actions matched without the need for
speech—now they combined operations in the corrals. Drew’s bare and
painfully acquired competence with the rope was paired to the Texan’s
range training, while Anse’s cruder and faster methods of "toppin’ a wild
one" were smoothed by Drew’s more patient gentling process. Both of them
were so absorbed by what they were doing that Tubacca and what might be
going on there had no more immediate meaning than the words in the books
which had ridden to the Stronghold in Drew’s saddlebags.
In the late afternoon of the third day the Kentuckian was walking a
long-legged bay on a lead when León climbed to the top pole of the corral.
"The _patrón_ comes," he announced.
Drew faced about. Two riders escorted at hardly more than a fast walk a
buckboard in which were two other men. Drew caught a glimpse of a white
bandage under the brim of the passenger’s hat and knew that Johnny Shannon
was coming home.
"Anse!" Drew raised a hand, suddenly knowing that his fingers were moving
in the old scout signal of trouble ahead.
The Texan came across the corral. Drew’s bay snorted, took a dance step or
two to the right as if it had picked up sudden tension from the men.
"What’s up?" Anse pushed back his hat, turned up a corner of his
neckerchief, and swabbed the lower half of his sweating face.
"Rennie’s back."
Drew watched León hurry to take the buckboard reins, watched Hunt Rennie
give a hand to Johnny. Then he saw Shannon jerk away from that aid,
walking stiffly toward Casa Grande while Rennie stood for an instant
looking after the younger man before following him.
Croaker tossed his head so high his limber ear bobbed in the murky air. He
brayed mournfully. Anse glanced at the mule’s long melancholy face.
"That’s th’ way you think it’s gonna be, Croaker? Well, maybe so ... maybe
so."
10
"This waitin’—" Anse sat cross-legged on the bunk next to Drew’s, his
thumb spinning the rowel of one spur. "I never did take kindly to waitin’.
Is he or ain’t he gonna sign me on?"
Drew, lying flat, stared up at the muslin-covered ceiling which years of
dust had turned to yellow-brown. "You ought to be used to it by
now—waitin’, I mean. We had us plenty of it in the army."
"Only that was sorta different, not kinda personal like this here. We was
sittin’ round on our heels then, waitin’ for some general to make up his
mind as to where he was gonna throw some lead fast. This is waitin’ to
know if _we_’re goin’ to be throwed—out!"
"I heard California——" Drew began again.
"You’ve sure taken a shine to Californy lately," Anse commented. Under his
fingers the rowel whirred. "At least you talk about it enough." He sounded
irritated. "Looky here, Drew, if that’s the way you really feel, why don’t
you go? I’m sayin’ you don’t feel that way, not by a long sight."
What if Drew answered with the exact truth, that he did not know how he
felt?
Nye came in, trailed by three of the other Rennie riders.
"Johnny’s got him a hoss-size headache an’ maybe so a pair of burnt ears.
Th’ Old Man musta lit into him hot an’ heavy, chewed him out good. I’d say
they warn’t even talkin’ by th’ time they pulled up here. Seems like th’
kid got an idear to scout north, struck trace near th’ Long Canyon, rode
th’ sign on his own an’ was bushwacked. Guess whoever did it thought
Johnny was wolf meat, jus’ took his hoss an’ left him there. You gotta
give th’ kid credit for havin’ it in him. He kept on goin’ after he came
to some——Walked till that patrol picked him up. I’d say he sure had him a
run of pure solid luck! There wasn’t much pawin’ an’ bellerin’ left in him
when Muller’s boys brought him to town. Been gittin’ a little of it back,
though, seems like. But maybe this here will learn him a little hoss
sense—"
"It was Kitchell’s men who shot him?" León wanted to know.
"Could be. Warn’t no Apaches, that’s for certain. No Injun would have jus’
shot him down an’ not made sure he was crow bait. Sure a fool thing to do,
ridin’ there alone. Anyway, th’ Old Man’ll stick him into bed here, an’
I’ll bet you Johnny ain’t gonna ride out anywhere without an eye on
him—not for a good long while."
"Long Canyon—" Perse Donally, one of the other Anglo riders, paused in
shucking his shirt to look inquiringly over his shoulder. "That sure is
off th’ trail th’ kid was supposed to be followin’. How come he ever
drifted that far north from th’ wells round, anyway?"
"You ask him." Nye sat down on a bunk, flipped his hat away, and lay back.
"Sure feels good jus’ to stretch out a mite," he observed. "Th’ Old Man,
he was movin’ like he warn’t on speakin’ terms with th’ law an’ there was
a sheriff behind every rock. Usually he’s calm as a hoss trough on a mild
day. Johnny gittin’ his hair cut with a slug sure shook Rennie up some,
almost as much as it shook Johnny. As for th’ kid ridin’ north—well, I’d
say that was some more of his tryin’ to make a real big brag. Maybe he
thought he could run down Kitchell all by hisself. Which is jus’ about as
straight thinkin’ as kickin’ a loaded polecat on th’ tail end. But
Johnny’s always been like that. Do it now, think ’bout it later. Got him
into more scrapes ’n I can count me on both hands. Hope th’ Old Man gives
it to him this time, hot an’ heavy, both barrels plumb center!"
"_Sí_, it is true that Juanito looks for trouble." Chino Herrera rolled a
cornshuck cigarette with precise, delicate twists of his fingers. "He is
_el chivato_—the young billy goat—that one. Ready to take on _el toro_
himself and lock horns. Such a one learns from knocks, not from warning
words. But he is yet a boy. Give him time."
"He’d better give himself some time," Nye announced. "Next time it may be
in th’ head, not ’longside it, that he gits his lead. See you got back in
one piece, you two fightin’ wildcats," Nye said, grinning at Drew and
Anse. "Nothin’ like tryin’ to take on th’ army—two to one—with th’ army
havin’ th’ advantage. That eye’s fadin’ good, Drew, only two colors now,
ain’t it?"
Drew grunted and Nye laughed. "Bet th’ captain is as techy as a teased
snake every time he thinks ’bout you two. Wanted to have you all corralled
nice an’ neat out to th’ camp where he could use his hooks an’ make at
least three ride mounts outta you. I’d walk soft near him for a while, or
you’ll have about as much chance as hens amblin’ into a coyote powwow."
"Don’t look like they was so tough they had to sneak up on th’ dipper to
take a drink, do they now?" Donally asked of the room at large.
"Don’t never judge no hoss by his coat an’ curryin’," Anse retorted.
"I don’t, son. I never do," Nye replied. "As far as I’m concerned, you’re
both so wild they have to tie a foot up when they give you a haircut.
Only, that sort of rep don’t go down good with th’ Old Man."
"We figured it might not," Drew agreed. Nye’s warning was only another
confirmation of Drew’s fears. Topham, Nye, all the rest, had made it only
too plain: no trouble on the Range and no troublemakers.
He gathered up clean underrigging, another shirt. If Rennie did order him
up to the big house for firing, Drew was not going to meet him stinking of
horse and sweat. In the stream back of the water corral there was a
bathing place, and chilly as it was, Drew intended to take advantage of
it.
"A mite cold, ain’t it?" Anse demanded from the bank as Drew splashed
vigorously to offset the chill. But the Texan was shucking boots and
clothing in turn.
There were a lot of shadows this close to twilight. Lamps twinkled in the
Stronghold. A horse nickered from the corrals, was answered from the barn.
Then a bray—Croaker sounding off. From the hills came the far-off
_yip-yip-yip_ of a coyote.
"Hey!" Anse stood up knee-high in the water.
"What’s the matter?" Drew called.
"Thought I saw somethin’ movin’ over there!"
Drew took a scrambling leap out of the water to their tangle of clothing,
his hand reaching for one of the Colts in the belt he had left carefully
on top of the pile. All those stories of Apaches weaseling into touching
distance of the guard at the Stronghold.... Why, only last year the
younger Rivas boy had had his throat slit out in the hay field within
sight of his home!
The Kentuckian crouched, alert, Anse beside him now, both listening for
any suspicious sound. At last they huddled into their clothes, hurried
back to the bunkhouse. Bartolomé was there waiting for them.
"You Tejanos—" There was no pretense of friendliness in his hail. "The
_patrón_ will see you, pronto!"
They went, tugging their clothing into order as they paused outside the
door. Drew rapped, took the sound from within as an invitation, and pushed
aside the heavy oak planks.
Outwardly the room was unchanged. No one had moved those old Spanish
chests, the skin rugs, the table, since his last visit there. But he had
the feeling that it was chill now, cold, as if a hearth fire had been
allowed to die into ashes. Perhaps that thought crossed his mind because
Hunt Rennie stood by the fireplace moving the toe of his boot back and
forth across a smear of gray powder. His back greeted them unwelcomingly,
and the silence lengthened uncomfortably until Drew did as he always had
and met the unpleasant head-on.
"You wanted us, suh?" It was like being back in the army. Even his arm
twitched as if some muscle was activated by memory to make one of those
informal military salutes the scouts favored.
Hunt Rennie did turn now. His eyes leveled on them. In the light of the
candles his cheeks looked even more hollow tonight, and he moved stiffly
as might a man who was not only bone-tired in body, thought Drew, but
weary in mind as well.
"You are Anson Kirby?" he addressed the Texan first.
"Yes, suh." Anse, too, must be caught up in the same web of memory. That
was his old report-to-the-commanding-officer voice.
"I understand you two thought it necessary to take on some troopers in the
Jacks."
What was the proper reply to that? Drew wondered. Probably it was best to
follow the old army rule of keep the mouth shut, never volunteer, no
explanations. If Hunt Rennie had had the story from Topham or Nye, he
already knew how the fight began.
"I won’t have troublemakers on the Range." Now the voice, too, was tired.
The youthfulness which had impressed Drew on their initial meeting had
drained from this man tonight. He was taut as if pulled harp-string tight
inside. Drew knew that feeling also. But what battle had Rennie emerged
from—some struggle with Shannon or Bayliss?
Then the words made sense, penetrating his concern for the man who had
said them. Well, this dismissal only matched his gloomiest expectations.
"Can’t any of you young fools get it through your thick heads that the
war’s over? Saloon brawling with the army ain’t going to change that.
It’ll only get you into worse difficulties around here."
A spark of protest awoke inside Drew. Rennie was reading this all wrong.
He and Anse certainly hadn’t been trying to wipe away the bitter taste of
Gainesville by jumping some blue coats in a cantina hundreds of miles and
more than a year away from where they had been forced to admit, at last,
that bulletless carbines and bare feet could not keep on shooting and
marching.
"Must have been mistaken about you, Kirby." Now Rennie looked at Drew.
The Kentuckian met those dark eyes squarely, his first unvoiced protest
stiffening into defiance. But he faced the older man steadily. Anse,
watching them both, drew a small, fast breath. Good thing for Drew there
were no other witnesses now; the likeness between the two Rennies was
unmistakable at this moment.
Hunt Rennie did not follow up his half accusation. He appeared to be
expecting some reply. What? A childish promise to be a good boy, not to do
it again? Drew’s half-unconscious concern for this man burned away
speedily, ignited by what he deemed injustice.
Anse broke the too long silence. "I don’t know what you heard ’bout that
there fight, suh," he drawled. "Can’t see as how we could have done no
different nohow. But that’s no call to saddle it all on Drew. Me, I had a
hand—two fists—in it, too. An’ if that’s what’s th’ matter, I can pull
out——"
"No!" Drew’s hand came up in the old gesture to stop the line of march.
"We’ll both ride, Mr. Rennie. We don’t aim to argue the matter any.
Only—there’s one thing—I brought Shadow and the filly down with the wagon
train. The foal’s too young to trail on now. They’re blooded stock. I’ve
papers for them. I’ll sell...."
He loathed saying every word of that. It was not only the thought of
giving up Shadow and the foal, though he knew that would cut with a deeper
hurt every day. It was having to ask any kind of favor from this man. Not
that such a sale was a favor; Rennie ought to be glad to get such blood
for the Range.
"You ain’t goin’ to do that!" Anse was stung into angry protest.
But Drew was unaware of the Texan’s outburst, his entire attention for
Hunt Rennie. The tall man came over to the table, moved one of the
candelabra forward as if to throw more light on Drew.
"That your choice of solutions, boy—to run?"
Drew flushed. The unfairness of that jab pushed him off balance. What
_did_ this man want of him anyway? Rennie had said it plain that he did
not want Drew and Anse on the Range.
"Running never settled anything." Rennie’s fingers traced the spread of
the candelabra’s arms. "Neither does jumping to conclusions. Has anyone
said you were through here, unless by your own choice?"